7o 


THE  SOUL  OF  LIFE 


THE 

SOUL  OF  LIFE 


OR 


What  is  Love  ? 


By  DAVID   LISLE 

AUTHOR  OF 
"A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS,"  AND  "A  KINGDOM  DIVIDED" 


'For  surely  love  is  the  soul  of  life." 
—R.  M.  L. 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY  FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHED  IN  ENGLAND  UNDER  THE  TITLE  OF  "WHAT  IS  LOVE?' 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


SECOND  PRINTING 


December.  1913 


TO 

MY  FRIEND 
IDALIA  V1LLIERS-WARDEL 


2136767 


THE  SOUL  OF  LIFE 


THE  SOUL  OF  LIFE 

OR 

What  is  Love? 

CHAPTER    I 

UNDER  the  pale  lemon  light  of  a  fantastic 
Chinese  lamp  a  woman  half  lay,  half 
crouched  on  a  low  divan  piled  up  with  mag- 
nificent cushions.  Her  great  dark  eyes  were 
dilated  with  excitement.  She  talked  incessantly. 

A  tall  man  with  a  pointed  beard  and  tired 
eyes  was  leaning  over  her,  taking  rapid  notes. 
He  looked  abnormally  intelligent ;  as  a  secretary 
he  was  invaluable  when  he  took  the  trouble  to 
forget  that  he  had  the  right  to  an  old  Austrian 
title  and  had  been  passing  rich  before  faith  in 
Zero  had  forced  him  to  apply  for  the  viatique. 

The  room  was  large,  but  it  seemed  over- 
crowded with  eager  talkers.  Butterfly  friends 
in  Rue  de  la  Paix  gowns  overflowed  with  fine 
enthusiasm.  Designers  waited  impatiently  for 
the  final  word  which  would  permit  them  to  re- 
turn to  their  studios.  Messengers  came  in  and  out 
bearing  telegrams  and  pneumatiques  covered 
with  decorative,  often  illegible,  handwriting. 
Every  one  sought  to  be  heard  and  seen.  The 
perfumes  of  Guerlain  and  Piver  mingled  with 

i 


2  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

the  scent  of  powders  and  toilet  waters.  The 
subtle,  almost  stifling,  breath  of  many  stepha- 
notis  stalks  crept  up  and  up  from  the  heart  of  a 
jar  of  old  Awata  fayence.  The  atmosphere  was 
enervating,  but  the  woman  on  the  divan  seemed 
full  of  vivid  life. 

By  turns  she  commanded,  dictated,  smiled, 
fascinated.  She  dominated  the  room  by  her 
mere  presence  in  it.  She  was  an  autocratic 
sovereign  in  the  society  of  willing  slaves. 

Suddenly  she  clapped  her  hands  sharply  and 
lay  back  amongst  the  cushions,  her  eyes  closed. 

It  was  a  well-known  signal.  A  moment  later 
the  room  was  empty,  save  for  an  old  woman, 
slightly  deformed,  who  was  moving  about  noise- 
lessly— arranging  flowers,  folding  lengths  of 
gorgeous  brocade,  hanging  up  dresses  in  the  vast 
wardrobes  which  lined  the  walls. 

It  was  the  dressing-room  of  the  most  success- 
ful actress  of  her  century,  and  it  was  situated 
high  up  in  the  dome  of  her  own  special  theater. 
A  famous  architect  had  obeyed  orders  when  con- 
structing this  isolated  nest,  with  its  immensely 
thick  walls  to  deaden  outside  sounds  and  its 
private  lift  which  was  guarded,  night  and  day, 
by  one  of  La  Belle  Gerome's  Indian  servants. 
When  the  mistress  of  the  luxurious  nest  chose 
to  be  alone  a  single  word  of  command  made  it 
impossible  for  any  living  soul  to  approach  her. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  3 

She  was  more  autocratic  than  any  Empress.  In 
her  own  particular  kingdom  her  word,  even  her 
swift  glance,  was  law. 

Lucienne  Gerome  had  often  been  called 
"Lucienne  the  Magnificent,"  and  with  reason. 
She  was  riotously  superb  and  extravagant:  in 
her  art,  in  her  life,  in  all  things.  In  many  re- 
spects she  had  the  imagination  of  a  Nero  and 
that  imagination  had  never  known  the  restraint 
of  a  curb.  A  beautiful,  reckless  woman  who  had 
made  friends  with  the  spirit  of  genius,  who  firm- 
ly believed  that  that  spirit  had  found  an  abiding- 
place  in  her  soul. 

She  was  taking  a  moment  of  repose  after  a 
long  rehearsal. 

Not  that  she  was  tired — bodily  fatigue  was 
almost  unknown  to  her — but  she  wished  to  think 
out  a  small  problem. 

She  was  alone,  for  the  faithful  Cora  did  not 
count;  but  as  the  moments  swept  by  she  was 
conscious  of  becoming  more  and  more  restless. 
The  room  was  perfectly  ventilated  but  the  at- 
mosphere was  charged  with  enervating  fumes. 
From  a  distant  table  a  thread  of  silver  smoke 
ascended  lazily  from  the  distorted  mouth  of  a 
hideous  dragon  whose  bronze  body  formed  a 
korot  or  incense-burner.  The  monster  bore  the 
signature  of  Sei-min,  but  the  powder  which  was 
eating  into  its  vitals  had  nothing  in  it  of  Japan. 


4  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

It  was  one  of  the  many  specialpreparationswhich 
were  thrown  together,  with  fiendish  knowledge, 
by  certain  Orientals  who  were  permanently  at- 
tached to  the  suite  of  La  Belle  Gerome.  She  was 
a  connoisseur  of  the  senses.  She  adored  them : 
pandered  to  them  unceasingly.  She  knew  that 
by  the  subtle  aid  of  strange  essences  certain 
natures  could  be  roused  to  frenzy  or  lulled  to 

dream-laden  sleep. 

***** 

The  luxurious  cushions  pressed  against  her 
sinuous  body,  giving  it  unwelcome  support  and 
warmth.  With  an  imperious  gesture  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  pushed  back  some  heavy  waves 
of  pale  gold  hair  from  her  forehead. 

She  was  a  woman  of  medium  height,  mag- 
nificently, voluptuously  shaped.  Her  rounded 
throat  seemed  carved  in  ivory,  but  it  had  lost  the 
entrancing  flatness  of  youth.  The  fine  curves  of 
her  bust  were  classic,  but  with  the  classicism  of 
Milo  Venus  in  maturity,  not  of  Nausicaa. 

All  her  life  she  had  been  discussed,  lauded, 
toasted  as  La  belle  blonde  aux  yeux  noirs.  For 
she  was  amazingly,  and  quite  naturally,  fair  of 
hair  and  skin,  while  her  great  passionate  eyes 
were  liquid  globes  of  velvet  darkness. 

No  one,  not  even  her  maid  Cora,  could  have 
told  the  original  color  of  the  brows  and  lashes. 
Ever  since  the  name  of  Lucienne  Gerome  had 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  5 

become  famous  in  all  the  capitals  of  Europe  they 
had  been  almost  black.  Not  dead  black,  for 
Cora  was  a  clever  artist,  but  of  that  mysterious 
shade  known  as  tete  de  negre. 

It  was  undeniable  that  Lucienne  Gerome  had 
the  most  wonderful  eyes  in  the  world.  Equally 
undeniable  that  her  full  lips,  faintly  crimson  and 
curved  like  Cupidon's  bow,  had  lost  something 
of  their  early  suppleness  and  that  the  coarse  out- 
line of  her  nostrils  had  borrowed  strength  from 
the  passing  years. 

She  was  still  a  supremely  lovely  woman,  still 
the  greatest  emotional  actress  on  the  French 
stage  but — she  was  forty-eight.  No  one  knew 
this,  as  a  matter  of  actual  fact,  except  the  de- 
voted maid  and  herself.  But  facts,  especially 
facts  connected  with  the  age  of  a  woman  who 
puts  unbounded  faith  in  physical  charms,  are 
tenacious  things.  They  may  be  silenced,  but  they 
never  let  go  their  hold  on  the  heart-strings. 

The  telephone  bell  rang  sharply.  Cora  an- 
swered it.  A  second  later  she  spoke  a  few  rapid 
words  and  Lucienne  made  a  gesture  of  assent. 
Her  nostrils  dilated  and  quivered  with  impa- 
tience. 

She  rested  her  hands,  with  their  golden  palms 
and  brilliant,  shell-pink  nails,  on  her  knees  and 
held  her  flexible  body  in  a  tense,  snake-like  curve 


6  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

which  was  very  characteristic.  Some  one 
knocked  sharply  and  she  cried  out — "Entrez." 

A  big,  loosely-built  man  came  in  slowly.  She 
smiled  at  him  and  swept  her  arms  towards  a 
roomy  chair.  He  threw  himself  heavily  into  it 
and  folded  his  arms.  For  a  moment  there  was 
silence.  The  man,  through  half-closed  eyes, 
scanned  the  face  of  the  woman  who  had  made  a 
fortune  for  him. 

He  was  remarkable  looking.  Even  a  casual 
observer  must  have  picked  him  out  in  a  crowd  as 
something  out  of  the  ordinary.  His  hair  was 
rather  long  and  curiously  crisp :  almost  like  the 
hair  of  a  negro.  It  was  iron  grey :  a  little  darker 
than  his  pointed  beard,  but  shades  whiter  than 
his  heavy  moustache.  In  dress  he  was  exag- 
geratedly "artistic."  His  loose,  velvet  coat  sug- 
gested a  studio  in  the  Quartier  Latin,  and  so  did 
his  low  collar  and  silk  tie  knotted  in  a  careless 
bow.  A  handsome  man  in  some  respects,  for  his 
features  were  good,  but  his  skin  was  rough  and 
rather  too  red,  and  his  mouth,  partly  concealed 
by  a  fierce  moustache,  was  cynical,  even  cruel. 

Jules  Rivaud,  the  world-famous  theatrical 
manager,  was  as  successful  in  his  own  line  as 
Lucienne  Gerome  in  hers.  He  was  determined, 
unscrupulous,  caustic,  witty.  A  first-rate  com- 
panion at  a  Bohemian  supper-party,  an  incom- 
parable man  of  business.  "Hard  as  nails"  his 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  7 

enemies,   and  indeed  some  of  his  friends,   de- 
clared him  to  be :  and  with  truth. 

For  over  twenty-five  years  he  had  been 
Lucienne  Gerome's  manager  and  general  adviser. 
In  a  way  he  had  created  her,  for  he  was  a  past- 
master  of  the  art  of  subtle  advertisement.  With 
skilled  fingers  he  played  on  the  emotions  of  the 
masses;  now  rousing  them  to  frenzied  curiosity 
over  some  love  adventure  in  which  royal  person- 
ages played  leading  roles ;  now  calling  up  waves 
of  sympathy  for  an  exquisitely  lovely  creature 
who  had  long  been  misunderstood  and  slandered. 
He  knew  his  public,  and  Lucienne's.  He  had 
never  once,  through  all  the  stormy  seasons  in  the 
capitals  of  Europe  and  America,  let  go  his  hold 
upon  the  emotions  of  the  people.  He  had  never 
once  allowed  his  genuinely  artistic  instincts  to 
cloud  over  his  clear  vision  of  what  the  paying 
public  demands. 

In  the  little  moment  of  silence  he  leaned  back 
heavily  and  scanned  Lucienne's  face.  His  steel- 
grey  eyes,  the  most  remarkable  feature  in  his 
face,  took  in  every  detail  of  dress  and  figure  with 
merciless  certainty. 

She  was  splendidly  handsome yet! 

Under  the  pale  light  of  the  fantastic  lamp  she 
looked  curiously  fair  and  attractive.  Her  feet, 
perfect  in  shape,  heirlooms  from  a  far-back 


8  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

Spanish  ancestor,  were  thrust  into  mules  of  silver 
brocade.  She  was  swathed  in  laces  which  glis- 
tened with  silver  embroideries.  Outlining  the 
curves  of  her  white  breast  there  was  a  band  of 
dark  sable.  She  had  pushed  a  cluster  of  waxen 
stephanotis  into  the  silver  belt  which  held  the 
laces  in  place.  It  was  one  of  the  many — hun- 
dreds if  the  newspapers  were  to  be  believed — 
sheathe  robes  which  hung  in  the  mirror-faced 
wardrobes:  vague  sheathes  of  embroideries  and 
furs  and  laces  which  cost  fabulous  sums  and 
which  were  worn — again  the  newspapers — di- 
rectly over  silk  maillots.  For  many  years  the 
Gerome  ligne  had  been  the  ambition  and  despair 
of  European  beauties.  And  as  the  years  glided 
by  Lucienne  gave  more  and  more  rein  to  her 
imagination.  She  revelled  in  sumptuous  sur- 
roundings. Her  peculiar  type  of  beauty,  exotic 
as  a  black  iris,  seemed  to  gain  fresh  fascination 

from  its  too  gorgeous  frames. 

***** 

Jules  Rivaud  twisted  his  big  cigar  in  his  full 
lips  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  beard. 

"What  have  you  in  the  back  of  your  mind  just 
now  ?  You  frightened  the  little  Bering  girl  most 
horribly.  Of  course  you  know  that?" 

Lucienne  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  twisted 
a  corner  of  her  lace  scarf  into  a  knot.  Her  dark 
eyes  narrowed  and  gleamed. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE'?  9 

"She  was  absurd — ridiculous.  She'll  never 
understand  'Madeleine  Delorme' — never  feel 
the  role." 

"Oh,  'feel'?    At  her  age?" 

"  'Madeleine  Delorme'  is  supposed  to  be  only 
seventeen.  Isola  Bering  is  eighteen — at  least." 

"At  most!"  Rivaud  laughed  as  he  spoke. 
Lucienne  glanced  at  him  irritably. 

"Very  well — eighteen.  One  year  older  than 
Madeleine.  It  ought  to  be  ideal." 

"Perhaps  it  is,  in  a  way." 

Another  short  chuckle  broke  from  the  man's 
compressed  lips  and  the  woman's  irritation  broke 
bounds.  With  the  gesture  of  a  snake-charmer 
preparing  to  call  forth  his  writhing  slaves  she  sat 
erect,  with  body  curved  and  tense,  and  nervous 
hands  pressed  down  on  her  knees  like  the  hands 
of  an  Egyptian  god.  It  was  a  typical  "Gerome 
pose."  Rivaud  suppressed  an  inclination  to 
smile.  He  knew  that  at  certain  moments  his 
Star  might  shoot,  scorching  him  in  its  rapid 
flight ! 

For  a  second  the  woman  sat  perfectly  still  on 
her  luxurious  couch,  with  yellow  light  streaming 
on  her  fair  hair  and  turning  it  to  living  gold. 
The  man  found  himself  making  mental  notes. 
In  such  a  pose,  with  such  an  expression  on  her 
face,  every  photographer  in  the  States  would 
clamor  for  the  chance  of  giving  him  a  free  ad- 


10  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

vertisement.  He  waited.  A  moment  later  the 
sluice-gates  opened. 

"I  knew  from  the  first  how  it  would  be.  She 
is  pretty  and  charming  but  an  amateur.  It's 
natural  enough  since  she  has  only  been  a  few 
months  on  the  stage,  but  in  her  case  experience 
won't  count  for  much.  All  her  life  she  will 
remain  braced  up  in  traditions,  whaleboned  in 
on  dit." 

Rivaud  laughed  outright. 

"Que  voulez-vous?  A  mere  girl?  A  little 
biche  au  bois  who  knows  nothing  of  life?" 

"At  her  age  do  you  suppose  /  was  a  mere 
girl?  When  I  was  only  fourteen  I  played 
'Phedre'  in  Henri  Haussman's  old  studio,  and 
not  at  all  badly.  Before  I  was  sixteen  I  was 
hated,  even  feared,  at  the  Francaise " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  a  light  that  was  almost 
vicious  gleaming  in  her  dark  eyes.  Rivaud  held 
up  his  hand. 

"You,  my  dear  woman?  You — you — you! 
That's  another  pair  of  gloves.  You're  the  eighth 
wonder:  Adrienne  Lecouvreur  come  back  to  life, 
with  the  Devil  and  Genius  for  sponsors.  You?" 
He  puffed  out  a  great  cloud  of  cigar  smoke  and 
leaned  back.  "Don't  let  us  talk  nonsense.  This 
little  girl  is  pretty  and  more  than  ordinarily 
clever.  Every  one  will  like  her  and  every  one 
will  make  excuses — if  excuses  are  necessary. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  11 

You've  taken  her  up.  You've  pushed  her  to  the 
front.  Of  course  she  has  had  no  experience,  but 
she  looks  the  part  to  perfection.  Leave  her  to 
me !  I'll  have  a  good  talk  with  her." 

Lucienne's  nostrils  suddenly  distended  and 
quivered.  She  shook  her  head  violently. 

"Leave  her  to  you — no.  You  don't  realize 
what's  wrong.  It's  her  frame,  her  outlook,  her 
education.  She's  laced  into  a  tight  corset  of 
'nice  ideas'  and  English  correctness.  That  im- 
possible little  aunt  of  hers  would  ruin  the  pros- 
pects of  a  budding  Rachel,  and  Isola  isn't  that. 
She's  too  heavily  handicapped.  If  she  is  ever  to 
succeed  she  must  push  aside  her  dear  correct  rela- 
tives and  friends.  She  must  strike  out  alone — 
there's  no  other  way." 

"You  propose?" 

"To  make  her  realize  the  real  nature  of 
'Madeleine  Delorme'  or  to  get  some  one  else  to 
undertake  the  role." 

"You'll  never  get  any  one  to  fill  it  so  ideally 
so  far  as  looks  go." 

"Probably  not,  but  where  an  actress  is  con- 
cerned looks  are  not  enough.  They  must  be 
backed  up  by  understanding." 

"How  do  you  intend " 

Lucienne  cut  the  sentence  short  by  hastily 
crossing  the  room  to  the  telephone.  She  spoke 
some  words  rapidly  and  then  returned  to  the 


12  WHAT  IS  LOVE4? 

divan.  Rivaud's  expressive  face  was  quivering 
with  suppressed  amusement. 

"Shall  I  go?"  he  asked.  Lucienne  made  an 
imperious  gesture  which  commanded  him  to  re- 
main. She  leaned  back  and  closed  her  eyes 
deliberately. 

There  was  silence.  Then  the  handle  of  the 
door  was  softly  turned.  A  girl  entered. 

She  was  rather  tall,  with  a  slender,  supple  fig- 
ure, full  of  willowy  grace.  Golden-brown  hair, 
which  looked  pale  in  certain  lights,  waved 
thickly  over  her  proud  little  head.  Her  warmly- 
tinted  skin  seemed  to  match  the  hair  in  goldness 
of  tone.  Her  lips  were  softly  crimson,  but  the 
matchless  complexion  recalled  a  hot-house  peach 
at  its  moment  of  golden  perfection.  A  famous 
modern  poet  had  said  of  her  that,  like  the  Prin- 
cesse  de  Conti,  she  was  "the  personification  of  a 
kiss,  the  incarnation  of  an  embrace,  the  ideal  of 
a  dream  of  love!" 

For  an  instant  the  girl  stood  still,  one  hand 
resting  on  the  handle  of  the  door.  She  was 
looking  straight  at  the  woman  lying  back 
amongst  the  luxurious  cushions,  and  as  she 
looked  one  realized  that  her  eyes  were  marvels 
of  liquid  fire.  Violet-black  eyes,  melting  and 
full  of  unconscious  caress — haunting  eyes ! 
strangely  like  those  of  Miles  Dering,  the 
"Painter  of  Souls"  who  had  been  adored  by 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  13 

women  of  many  nations.    And  this  was  natural, 
since  the  girl  was  Bering's  only  daughter. 

With  a  swift  movement  which  had  in  it  the 
unconscious  grace  of  a  fawn,  Isola  sprang  for- 
ward and  threw  herself  on  her  knees  by  the 
divan. 

"You  forgive  me ?  You  are  not  really  angry? 
I'm  so  sorry  I  was  stupid.  Indeed,  indeed,  I'll 
do  better  to-morrow.  I  don't  know  what  was 
wrong  this  afternoon." 

With  a  charming  air  of  reverence  she  kissed 
the  nervous  hand  which  was  pressed  against  the 
actress's  knee.  Lucienne  opened  her  eyes  and 
smiled  faintly.  At  that  moment  the  likeness 
between  them  was  very  marked.  For  several 
moments  she  looked  straight  into  the  girl's  eyes. 
Then  she  sat  up  and  closed  her  tenacious  fingers 
round  the  soft  wrist. 

"Angry — no.  Disappointed — yes.  You  make 
no  real  progress,  petite.  You  speak  your  lines  as 
a  clever  parrot  might  speak  them.  You  are 
Isola  Bering  all  the  time.  Very  pretty  and 
charming,  I  grant,  but  'Madeleine  Belorme' — 
never!" 

The  girl  flushed.  She  was  too  proud  to  cry, 
but  the  afternoon  had  been  a  terrible  one.  Her 
nerves  were  strung  up  to  snapping  pitch.  She 


14  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

was  silent  because  she  did  not  dare  to  trust  her 
voice.  Lucienne  watched  her  as  a  student  of 
vivisection  might  watch  the  quiver  of  a  naked 
nerve.  The  silence  had  become  oppressive  before 
the  great  actress  spoke  again. 

"What  do  you  know  of  her,  really?  Of 
Madeleine  Delorme  ?  What  do  you  know  of  her 
secret  tastes?  Of  her  thoughts?  Of  her  ambi- 
tions ?  Of  her  education  ?  Of  her  very  clothes  ? 
For  Madeleine  was  an  emancipated  jeune  fille. 
She  had  a  dress  allowance.  She  could  choose 
her  own  clothes.  She  could  even  choose  her  own 
lingerie.  Come — tell  me  what  you  know  of  her. 
Is  she  a  young  girl  who  would  wear  openwork 
stockings  with  a  little  morning  gown?  Would 
she  select  lingerie  trimmed  with  a  very  little  real 
Valenciennes  lace,  or  would  she  buy  semi-trans- 
parent things  at  a  Magasin  de  Nouveautes? 
What  type  of  perfume  does  she  use,  and  how 
does  she  use  it?  How  would  she  touch  a  cluster 
of  roses — if  she  were  quite  alone?  What  are 
her  real,  deep-down,  likes  and  dislikes?" 

Isola's  lips  quivered.  She  tried  to  speak, 
but  no  sound  came.  Rivaud,  who  was  sitting 
behind  her,  made  a  gesture  of  remonstrance,  but 
Lucienne's  face  did  not  soften.  She  continued  to 
stare  down  into  the  depths  of  the  girl's  fright- 
ened eyes. 

"You  don't  know  any  one  of  these  things. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE 9  if 

You  don't  even  realize  that  it  is  vitally  impor- 
tant you  should  know  them." 

"I  never  thought  of  it — in  that  way." 
The  liquid  voice  was  hoarse  and  strained,  but 
it  called  up  no  pity. 

"C'est  ca!  You  have  spoken,  my  charming 
little  amateur.  You  have  spoken  the  simple 
truth.  You  have  explained  everything.  At  this 
moment,  when  you  are  attempting  to  interpret  a 
very  complicated  character,  you  do  not  know 
how  to  read  the  alphabet  of  my  profession.  You 
imagine  that  if  you  are  word-perfect,  and  if  you 
look  pretty,  all  will  go  well.  That  because 
Madeleine  Delorme  is  a  young  girl,  Isola  Der- 
ing,  in  her  own  character,  can  naturally  interpret 
her.  You  imagine  it  is  enough  to  say  that  she  is 
a  jenne  fille  of  to-morrow — sly,  corrupt,  exag- 
geratedly vain,  immoral  of  thought  before  im- 
moral of  action !  You  are  satisfied  to  remain 
Isola  Bering  while  you  speak  the  words  of 
Madeleine  Delorme." 

"But — what  can  I  do — what  can  I  do?" 
It  was  a  heart  cry.     It  moved  the  listening 
man,  but  not  the  woman.    Her  fingers  twitched. 
Her  eyes  flashed  fire.    Her  grasp  on  the  girl's 
arm  tightened. 

"  'Do'  ?  I  remember  hearing  a  little  story 
about  an  English  actress  who  was  great  in  her 
day — Mrs.  Stirling.  She  went  on  the  stage  as  a 


16  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

young  girl,  younger  than  you  are  now.  She  had 
some  success  from  the  first,  but  not  much.  Sud- 
denly she  realized  the  possibilities  and  demands 
of  her  art,  and  one  night  she  rose  to  heights.  A 
famous  actor  who  was  playing  the  leading  role 
said  to  her  in  the  wings,  'You've  thrown  aside 
your  corset  at  last !'  He  didn't  mean  a  corset  of 
linen  and  bone;  he  meant  a  corset  of  environ- 
ment. He  knew  she  had  realized  that  night,  for 
the  first  time,  that  an  actress  must  be  free  from 
all  trammels.  That  she  must  sacrifice,  and 
willingly,  everything  to  her  art.  That  if  she 
plays  the  part  of  a  vicious  woman  she  must 
understand  what  vice  means — how  vice  acts  upon 
individual  characters — what  it  does  to  them.  She 
must  realize  that  unless  she  gets  right  into  the 
skin  of  a  character  she  cannot  play  it  adequately. 
For  the  time  being  she  must  be  the  character,  in 
every  smallest  detail.  You  think  I  was  speaking 
half  in  jest  when  I  asked  if  you  knew  whether 
Madeleine  Delorme  wore,  from  choice,  a  little 
real  Valenciennes  lace  on  her  lingerie  or  a  great 
deal  of  imitation  lace.  But  the  whole  character 
of  a  girl,  as  of  a  woman,  may  be  revealed  in  her 
choice  of  lace — in  her  choice  of  perfume — in  her 
manner  of  using  it.  There  is  a  whole  world  of 
difference  between  the  girl  who  would — natu- 
rally— run  a  length  of  pink  ribbon  through  the 
insertions  of  her  cache  corset  and  the  girl  who 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  17 

would — naturally — choose  white  satin  or  a  little 
line  of  black  velvet.  Character  reveals  itself  in 
detail.  The  big  emotions  of  life,  like  the  big 
actions,  can  be  stage-managed  and  artificially  col- 
ored, but  the  little  details  which  spring  from 
secret  tastes  and  secret  desires  give  the  clue  to 
the  real  individual.  It  is  these  details  that  an 
actress  who  wishes  to  become  worthy  of  the  name 
must  study  with  minute  care.  She  must  see  the 
character  she  is  about  to  interpret  when  it  is 
alone.  She  must  see  it  awake  and  asleep.  She 
must  see  its  naked  soul." 

The  golden  voice,  vibrating,  compelling,  rang 
out  through  the  perfumed  room.  Lucienne  had 
forgotten  herself  in  her  defence  of  her  cherished 
art.  Quite  unconsciously  she  had  thrust  the 
kneeling  girl  aside  and  had  risen  to  her  feet. 
Under  the  mellow  light  of  the  fantastic  lamp  she 
looked  magnificent.  Isola  stood  up.  She  seemed 
hypnotized.  Her  flower-like  face  had  grown 
very  pale.  In  that  moment  of  intense  excitement 
her  dark  eyes  seemed  immense.  She  was  trem- 
bling. 

Rivaud  watched  them  with  eager  eyes.  The 
organ  which  he  was  pleased  to  call  his  heart 
throbbed  with  triumph.  She  was  marvellous — 
La  Belle  Gerome !  Marvellous — yet !  There  was 
a  moment  of  silence.  Then,  as  he  saw  the  light 
slowly  fading  from  Lucienne's  face,  he  spoke. 


i8  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

"You  are  wonderful,  chere  amie — wonderful. 
But  you  are  asking  too  much  from  our  little 
biche  au  bois,  for  the  moment.  And,  besides, 
your  view  of  the  actor's  art  is  a  terrific  one !  Only 
about  three  actors,  or  actresses,  in  a  century  live 
up  to  it.  Adrienne  Lecouvreur  did,  in  a  way, 
but  even  she  found  it  impossible  to  force  herself 
into  a  comedy  'skin.'  I'm  not  sure  that  Diderot 
and  Constant  Coquelin  and  Fechter  weren't  right 
when  they  insisted  that  the  actor's  art  is  entirely 
an  affair  of  intelligence — not  of  feeling.  Coque- 
lin, who  was  surely  amongst  the  greatest,  al- 
ways held  the  view  that  the  actor's  art  was  to  act 
— not  to  feel.  That  a  cool  and  unemotional 
mind  ought  to  direct  and  govern  the  portrayal 
of  violent  emotions!" 

He  spoke  with  intention,  for  he  knew  Lu- 
cienne's  theories  on  the  subject.  He  was  not  a 
specially  kind-hearted  man,  but  he  felt  really 
sorry  for  the  girl's  distress,  and  wished  to  give 
her  time  to  recover. 

With  a  furious  gesture  the  actress  swept 
aside  his  suggestions. 

"They  have  always  said  that  of  my  old  friend 
Coquelin,  but  I  have  never  believed  it.  How 
can  one  remain  calm  while  portraying  violent 
emotions?  It's  impossible.  If  you  want  to  make 
people  feel  anything,  you  must  feel  it  yourself — 
and  intensely.  For  the  moment  you  must  actually 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  19 

be  the  character.  You  must  have  lived  as  she 
has  lived — loved  as  she  has  loved — suffered  as 
she  has  suffered.  You  must  have  lived  with  her 
and  for  her,  for  many  days  and  nights.  You 
must  have  followed  her  from  childhood — been 
with  her  when  first  the  dawn  of  womanhood 
broke  on  her  horizon.  If  her  impulses  are  bad, 
yours — for  the  moment — must  be  bad,  and  the 
reverse.  You  must  enter  into  the  character  and 
dwell  there,  unless  you  want  to  be  merely  a  clev- 
er girl,  or  woman,  repeating  words  which  have 
no  real  meaning.  On  the  stage  I  am  not  Lu- 
cienne  Gerome.  I  am  Adrienne  or  Phedre,  or 
Marguerite  Gautier  or  Francesca  da  Rimini. 
Each  in  turn,  but  each  in  body  and  soul  and  in- 
telligence. For  the  actress  who  wishes  to  be 
worthy  of  her  profession  there  are  no  half  meas- 
ures— no  mealy-mouthed  panderings  to  'nice 
ideas'  and  on  dlt.  For  a  sensitive  woman  it  is  a 
terrible  profession — the  path  to  success  is  rugged 
and  strewn  with  thorns,  but  it  must  be  pursued 
relentlessly.  You  must  give  yourself  up  to  your 
art  entirely — using  every  experience  as  a  means 
by  which  you  can  further  your  ends — measuring 
the  joy  of  every  kiss,  so  that  you  may  be  able 
to  give  back  that  joy  to  your  public.  A  horrible 
life,  if  you  will,  but  glorious,  for  it  forces  one  to 
live  every  second  of  one's  existence.  It  forces  a 
woman  to  wear  out,  instead  of  sitting  down  un- 


20  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

der  the  touch  of  rust.  A  cruel,  cruel  life!  be- 
cause people  who  pay  to  be  entertained  are  al- 
ways at  heart  cruel.  They  watch  for  every  little 
slip — every  weak  moment — every  shadow  of  a 
wrinkle  on  a  once  smooth  face.  They  watch  and 
they  laugh.  They  set  up  an  idol,  and  for  a  time 
they  worship  it,  but — in  a  single  moment  they 
will  ruthlessly  pull  it  down  and  stamp  upon 
it:  My  God — how  cruel  people  are — at  times ! 
I  was  present  when  Jeanne  Haraucourt  played 
Adrienne  Lecouvreur  for  the  last  time — I  had 
promised  to  have  supper  with  her  after  the  play. 
She  had  always  been  so  lovely !  so  delicious ! 
with  her  eyes  of  a  frightened  fawn  and  her  pale 
gold  hair  that  looked  like  a  veil  of  silver.  That 
night  she  was  ill.  Maurice  du  Gue  had  deserted 
her.  She  was  no  longer  young.  I  shall  never 
forget  that  scene.  She  could  hardly  speak; 
de  Gue  was  in  a  loge  with  the  girl  he  had  just 
married;  Jeanne  broke  down  in  the  last  act  and 
threw  out  her  arms  towards  him.  And  they 
laughed!  She  was  ill — worn — faded.  If  she 
had  looked  young  and  lovely  at  that  moment,  de 
Gue  would  probably  have  returned  to  her — all 
the  world  would  have  found  the  incident  ro- 
mantic and  delightful.  But  the  lights  were 
crude — too  naked — she  looked  old — and  the 
people  laughed!" 

Lucienne's  voice  vibrated  harshly.     She  was 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  21 

pale  as  death.    Her  great  dark  eyes  flashed  fire. 

Isola  watched  her  as  one  might  watch  the 
movements  of  a  god. 

"And  then ?"  she  said  breathlessly.  "And 

then ?" 

Rivaud  broke  in  suddenly,  but  his  words  were 
unheeded.  The  actress  drew  herself  up  proudly 
and  faced  the  trembling  girl. 

"And  then?"  she  repeated.  "Then — the 
Morgue  !  That  night  Jeanne  disappeared.  We 
waited  for  her  at  her  house  in  the  Boulevard 
Malesherbes  for  hours,  we  sent  to  look  for  her 
in  all  directions;  but  she  never  came.  Four 
days  later  she  was  lying  on  a  slab  of  marble  in 
the  Morgue.  They  recognized  her  because  of 
her  rings.  The  stones  in  the  bed  of  the  Seine 
had  dealt  with  her  face." 

Isola  uttered  a  terrified  cry.  She  covered  her 
face  in  her  hands.  She  was  shaken  with  violent 
sobs.  Rivaud  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
turned  to  leave  the  room,  but  Lucienne  called 
him  imperiously. 

"You  think  I  have  been  cruel.  No !  I  have 
been  kind.  The  life  of  an  actress  on  our  French 
stage  is  necessarily  a  stormy  one.  It  is  a  long 
battle  against  the  traditions  and  social  laws 
which  are  supposed  to  environ  women.  It  is  a 
glorious  life,  but  a  very  hard  one —  for  une  sen- 
sitive. Isola  believes  that  she  wishes  to  become 


22  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

an  actress.  It  is  necessary  that  she  should  real- 
ize something  of  what  an  actress's  life  really 
means.  She  is  fascinated  by  the  cloud  of  glory 
which  hovers  over  a  favorite  artist's  head — it 
is  necessary  that  she  should  realize  the  price 
which  has  to  be  paid  for  that  glory.  She  is  heav- 
ily handicapped  at  the  very  start  by  her  family 
and  her  stereotyped  education.  /  had  no  fam- 
ily, and  what  education  I  have  I  secured  for  my- 
self, in  my  own  way.  I  seem  cruel  now,  but  one 
day  she  will  realize  that  naked  cruelty  is  some- 
times better  than  carefully  dressed  kindness." 

She  threw  herself  back  on  the  divan  and 
pressed  her  head  against  the  cushions.  A  moment 
later  her  eyes  closed  and  her  sinuous  body  became 
absolutely  motionless. 

Rivaud  looked  at  her.  He  hesitated;  then  he 
softly  caught  Isola's  hand  and  drew  her  from 
the  room. 


CHAPTER  II 

GUY  DE  VESIAN  was  a  poet  of  the 
so-called  decadent  school.  He  had  an 
amazing  command  of  words — rich,  mellow,  sul- 
try words  that  haunted  the  imagination  and  crept 
cunningly  into  the  winding  paths  which  led  to 
the  soul. 

Words  were  his  slaves.  With  relentless  in- 
tention he  flung  them  together  in  order  that 
they,  in  sudden  fury,  might  tear  and  destroy 
the  ideals  of  yesterday.  More  modern  than  all 
the  other  modernists,  he  gloried  in  setting  light 
to  a  holocaust  of  tender  dreams.  He  was  the 
acknowledged  apostle  of  realities. 

"Fill  every  second  of  your  life  with  vivid 
emotion.  Snatch  joy  and  intoxicating  excite- 
ment from  the  grudging  hands  of  the  passing 
hours.  Live !  No  matter  what  the  consequences 
may  be.  Live — for  the  hour,  for  the  moment." 

This  was  the  gospel  he  lived  rather  than 
preached,  but  which,  because  of  the  glamor 
which  surrounded  him,  carried  poison  into  count- 
less lives. 

He  was  not  a  handsome  man,  but  he  had 
charm.  Of  medium  height,  he  had  a  slender, 
well-knit  figure,  and  extraordinarily  small  hands 
23 


24  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

and  feet.  He  resembled,  rather  strikingly,  a 
certain  portrait  of  Vandyke,  which  at  one  time 
formed  part  of  the  Wallace  collection.  A  thin, 
oval  face,  with  a  well-shaped  nose  and  long 
chin,  covered  with  a  pointed  beard.  His  mouth 
attracted  attention  because  it  was  like  the  mouth 
of  a  beautiful  woman,  but  his  eyes  were  the  com- 
pelling feature  of  his  face,  blue-grey  in  color, 
large,  vivid,  searching.  The  eyes  of  an  angel 
or  of  a  devil — so  his  mother  said.  And  in  truth 
there  was  something  of  the  angel  in  de  Vesian's 
character,  just  as  there  was  much  of  the  devil. 
He  was  perfectly  charming  to  those  who  served 
him.  He  was  an  ideal  son  to  a  particularly 
un-ideal  mother.  He  was  gay,  generous,  caress- 
ing, witty — each  in  turn  and  each  quite  natu- 
rally. In  his  whole  personality  there  was  not  an 
ounce  of  "pose."  He  was  frankly  himself — a 
born  egoist,  an  iconoclast,  a  wilful  destroyer  of 

conventions. 

***** 

The  Villa  Floralia  was  one  of  the  landmarks 
of  artistic  Paris.  It  was  situated  in  the  heart  of 
Neuilly,  hidden  away  in  a  quiet  corner  and 
framed  by  a  luxuriant  garden.  The  house  itself 
was  built  in  the  Italian  style :  long  and  low,  with 
two  great  wings  spreading  out  from  a  central 
hall. 

Madame  de  Vesian,  who  had  been  an  Aus- 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  25 

trian  Comtesse  before  her  marriage,  occupied 
one  wing,  her  son  occupied  the  other.  They  met 
at  times,  sometimes  not  for  weeks  together,  in 
the  vast  central  hall  which  opened  on  a  marble 
loggia.  The  two  were  excellent  friends,  but 
their  lives  rarely  touched  each  other.  The  Com- 
tesse was  a  morphinomane  of  a  peculiar  type. 
She  never  sought  to  hide  her  cherished  vice, 
rather  did  she  glory  in  it.  She  was  a  genuine 
connoisseur  in  morphia.  With  fiendish  dexterity 
she  experimented  with  it,  never  injecting  too 
much  at  one  time,  always  securing  for  herself 
future  moments  of  exquisite  blen-etre.  A  very 
famous  French  physician,  who  had  been  an  in- 
timate friend  of  Henri  de  Vesian — homme  du 
monde,  dramatist,  farceur,  and  profligate — had 
told  her  that  she  was  the  incarnation  of  a  mor- 
phia-fiend. The  idea  amused  her  vastly.  She 
repeated  the  mot  far  and  near. 

When  Guy  de  Vesian  entertained,  Tout  Paris 
flocked  to  the  Villa  Floralia.  He  had  the  luxu- 
riant imagination  of  the  author  of  "Satyricon" 
allied  to  that  distinguished  critic's  eclectic  taste. 
Rich  enough  to  gratify  his  most  extravagant 
fancies,  he  showed  his  world  that  he  understood 
the  inner  meaning  of  aestheticism.  His  recep- 
tion-rooms were  models  of  restrained  magnifi- 
cence, lo  the  center  hall  a  flame  of  pomegran- 


26  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

ates  and  oleanders  was  thrown  against  ivory 
walls.  The  panels  had  been  painted  by  a  young 
genius,  whose  early  death  lay  at  de  Vesian's 
door:  for  it  was  he  who  had  first  instilled  into 
an  ill-balanced,  fervid  imagination  the  doctrine 
that  a  life  of  pleasure  is  the  only  life  worth 
living. 

In  the  hall  the  mosaic  floor  was  strewn  with 
prayer-rugs  of  faded  tints,  which  crept  together 
and  formed  a  delicious  whole.  There  were 
divans  covered  with  eastern  brocades  and  little 
coffee-tables  of  carved  ebony  inset  with  silver 
and  with  many  of  those  deep-blue  turquoises 
which  the  Indians  and  Persians  sell  in  the  streets 
of  Cairo.  A  great  cool  hall,  lighted  by  curious 
hanging-lamps  veiled  in  semi-transparent  quartz 
globes,  which  threw  down  a  soft  light  like  the 
first  rays  of  dawn — palest  rose  and  faintest  blue. 
White  lilies  stood  in  copper  jars  of  fantastic 
design.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  a  Steinway 
grand  in  an  ebony  case  stood  alone.  De  Vesian 
was  an  excellent  musician,  though  he  never  could 
be  persuaded  to  sing  or  play  outside  his  circle 

of  intimate  friends. 

***** 

The  afternoon  was  a  glorious  one — an  April 
day  which  had  brought  in  its  train  a  warm  breath 
of  summer.  The  poet  was  sitting  on  the  broad 
terrace  which  ran  in  front  of  the  villa.  He  was 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  27 

alone.  A  little  tea-service  of  delicate  porcelain 
stood  on  a  table  by  his  side.  His  favorite  dog, 
a  great  white  borzoi,  sniffed  at  his  hand  as  he 
leaned  forward  and  put  a  thin  slice  of  lemon  into 
a  cup.  As  he  looked  down  at  the  dog  his  face 
seemed  almost  beautiful  because  of  the  kindliness 
of  its  expression. 

The  garden  was  filled  with  delicious  calm. 
One  forgot  that  fevered,  restless  Paris  lay  almost 
at  its  gates. 

It  was  a  charmed  spot,  which  had  been  ca- 
ressed by  the  hand  of  nature  and  cherished  by 
refined  art.  It  had  been  de  Vesian's  fancy  to 
fashion  his  garden  in  Roman  style.  To  the  left, 
removed  from  the  house,  there  was  a  mysterious 
ilex  grove.  Stone-pines  gave  an  air  of  magnifi- 
cence to  the  entrance  of  a  casino  which  had  been 
built  on  the  model  of  the  casino  in  the  Borghese 
gardens.  There  were  many  more  foliage  plants 
and  trees  than  flowers,  but  the  broad  terrace  was 
framed  in  rose-trees  which  by  and  by  would  waft 
perfume  into  the  open  windows  of  the  cool 
rooms. 

De  Vesian  had  a  passion  for  violets.  All  round 
the  balustrade  of  the  terrace,  on  the  inner  side, 
there  was  a  narrow  bed  carpeted  with  modest 
green  leaves.  It  was  the  pleasure-ground  of  the 
deep  purple  violet  which  bears  the  name  of 
Czar. 


28  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

A  servant  crossed  the  terrace  bearing  a  letter. 

De  Vesian  took  it  and  glanced  at  the  intricate 
silver  monogram  on  the  thick  cream  paper.  He 
smiled  and  laid  the  letter  down,  unopened. 
Three  years  ago — even  two,  it  would  have  given 
him  a  thrill.  But  now? 

He  guessed  the  contents.  Without  breaking 
the  silver  seal  he  seemed  to  see  the  burning  words 
of  passionate  love — protestations — perhaps  re- 
proaches. 

With  something  of  impatience  he  pulled  his 
Panama  hat  down  over  his  eyes  and  folded  his 
arms.  She  was  beautiful — fascinating — clever 
to  the  point  of  genius — "the  greatest  actress  of 
her  century." 

He  had  met  her,  three  years  before,  in  Rome, 
at  mid-summer,  when  the  crowd  of  forestieri  that 
invaded  the  Eternal  City  in  winter  had  fled. 
They  had  stayed  together  at  the  house  of  an 
eccentric  painter  whose  wife  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  poet's  mother.  It  had  been  a 
month  of  subtle  charm. 

Lucienne  Gerome  had  eluded  him,  puzzled 
him,  roused  his  curiosity  and  then — had  sudden- 
ly disappeared!  It  had  been  a  wonderful  ad- 
venture, palpitating  with  excitement;  for  the 
man  had  been  eager  and  the  woman  cunning. 

Lucienne  had  disappeared.    For  months  the 


WHAT  IS  LOVE"?  29 

pursuer  was  baffled — keenly  interested — pas- 
sionately determined. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  they  met  again:  and 
within  the  space  of  a  single  week  their  roles  had 
been  exchanged.  The  woman  had  become  vehe- 
ment, impatient,  terribly  eager.  She  was  in 
deadly  earnest — at  last.  She  forgot  to  be  wise. 

She  who  had  so  often  used  Love  as  a  means 
for  studying  fresh  emotions  had  become  the  slave 
of  Love.  Guy  de  Vesian  became  master  of  her 
life.  She  was  obsessed. 

The  memory  of  those  early  days  came  back  to 
him  as  he  lay  against  the  cushions  of  his  lounge 
chair.  In  a  way  they  had  been  very  sweet ;  but, 
almost  from  the  first,  they  had  been  disappoint- 
ing. He  had  in  him  a  man's  inherent  love  of  the 
chase.  The  role  of  ardent  pursuer  was  his  by 
right,  and  by  choice.  The  idea  that  he  was  be- 
ing pursued  stifled  him.  He  had  been  bitterly 
disappointed.  The  lovely  woman  whose  name 
was  famous  all  over  Europe  was  exaggeratedly 
clever  but  she  was  not  subtle. 

When  she  loved,  seriously,  she  became  ordi- 
nary :  a  woman  who  craved  to  reveal  herself,  to 
throw  with  generous  hands  all  that  was  best  in 
her  at  the  feet  of  her  idol.  She  was  beautiful, 
fascinating,  but  her  passionate  warmth  had  the 
effect  of  freezing  the  blood  in  de  Vesian's  veins. 


30  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

He  had  pictured  something  so  different:  an 
ardent,  mad  pursuit;  a  passionate  appeal;  the 
delicious  moment  of  possible  yielding;  the  kiss 
but  half  realized. 

The  waiting — hoping — longing.  A  final  re- 
fusal— perhaps?  And  then — a  deathless  mem- 
ory! 

He  sighed.  His  delicate  hand,  exquisitely 
manicured  as  the  hand  of  a  woman,  sought  the 
borzoi's  head.  He  fondled  it.  Then  he  drank 
some  tea  and  again  leaned  back.  His  luminous 
eyes  wandered  over  the  sun-lit  gardens. 

Close  by  a  shadowy  glade,  where  golden  jon- 
quils flourished,  there  was  a  fountain  which 
seemed  to  breathe  the  spirit  of  the  Renaissance. 
Song  and  sparkle!  A  gracious  youth,  rising 
from  a  basin  of  white  marble,  holding  up  a 
bronze  dolphin,  from  whose  mouth  flowed  a  sil- 
ver thread  of  glistening  water.  There  were 
feathery  ferns  lying  close  to  the  border.  An 
overhanging  tree,  which  had  drawn  apart  from 
its  fellows  in  the  glade,  cast  shadows,  softly  gray, 
on  the  restless  ripples.  An  enervating  calm  lay 
upon  a  scene  which  Fragonard  would  have 
loved. 

De  Vesian's  lips  moved  slightly.  He  was 
speaking  to  himself,  some  words  which  had  been 
written  by  his  friend,  Georges  Rodenbach : 


WHAT  IS  LOVE4?  31 

L'eau,  pour  qui  souffre,  est  une  soeur  de  charite, 
Que  n'a  pu  satisfaire  aucune  joie  humaine, 
Sous  une  guimpe  et  sous  un   froc  d'obscurite. 
Et  qui  se  cache,  triste  et  le  sourire  amene 
Elle  chante,  elle  dit:  les  doux  abris  que  j'ai, 
Pour  ceux  de  qui  le  coeur  est  trop  decourage: 
Car,  pour  leur  fievre,  c'est  la  fraicheur  d'un  bon  lit. 
Et  beacoup,  aimantes  par  cet  appel  propice, 
Perclus,  entrent  dans  1'eau  comme  entre  a  1'hospice, 
Puis  meurent — 1'eau  les  lave  et  les  ensevelit, 
Dans  les  courants  aussi  frais  que  de  fanes  toiles, 
Et  c'est  enfin  vraiment  pour  eux  la  Bonne  Mort. 
Cependant  que  le  soir,  autour  du  corps  qui  dort, 
L'eau  noire  allume  un  grand  catafalque  d'etoiles. 
***** 

He  smiled  softly.    "La  Bonne  Mort?"    "Un 

grand  catafalque  d'etoiles?" 

The  smile  deepened — then  it  faded  away. 
His  imagination  had  seized  upon  the  "cata- 
falque d'etoiles."  It  was  ravaging  it  in  frantic 
desire  to  learn  its  most  subtle  secrets. 

The  white  dog  leaned  close  to  his  knee  and 
licked  his  hand.  In  an  instant  the  poet's  vision 
of  mysterious  night  vanished.  The  perfume 
of  some  pale  roses  which  stood  on  the  table  in 
a  crystal  vase  assailed  his  senses.  His  nostrils 
distended  and  quivered.  A  joyous  light  danced 
into  his  eyes.  It  was  Spring !  Little  buds,  filled 
with  unrealized  ambitions,  were  beating  against 
the  tender  green  walls  that  confined  them.  Far 


32  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

down  in  the  crisp  brown  earth  there  was  cease- 
less movement.  It  was  Spring ! 

It  seemed  to  him  that  if  indeed  there  were  a 
God,  other  than  mysterious  Nature,  the  eternal 
prayer  of  human  souls  ought  to  be — "Give  us 
forever  and  forever  the  season  of  budding  leaf 
— of  breaking  blossom !  Make  the  season  of 
Spring  eternal !  Printemps  et  Le  Neant.  Noth- 
ing between!" 

His  pulses  throbbed.  At  that  instant  his 
whole  being  was  filled  with  the  Spirit  of  Spring 
— the  perfumed  petals  of  a  rose,  whispering  as 
they  unfolded,  slowly;  the  white  imagination  of 
a  young  girl — almost  a  child;  a  lovely  female 
thing  who  was  still  marvelling  at  the  rose-tinted 
veil  of  knowledge  which  was  beginning  to  wind 
itself  about  her  awakening  senses;  the  divine 
flood  of  conscious  red  creeping  into  unkissed 
cheeks;  lips  parted  in  an  expectation  that  was 
more  than  half  fear ! 

Isola  Bering  !- 

How  delicious  she  was!  How  adorable  in 
her  veil  of  ignorance  and  delicious  youth!  A 
Niphetos  bud — with  warm,  white  skin  and 
scented  breath.  A  gazelle  with  liquid,  fright- 
ened eyes.  An  exquisite  being  who,  in  her  own 
sweet  person,  embodied  Spring ! 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  33 

His  imagination,  ever  restless,  crossed  swords 
with  an  unwelcome  memory:  only  the  memory 
of  a  flower,  and  a  beautiful  one — a  black  iris 
which  had  rested  on  his  writing-table  the  day 
before.  It  had  fascinated  him.  Its  curved 
petals  had  seemed  to  hold  a  secret  in  their  close 
embrace.  Where  the  exquisitely  transparent 
envelope  broke  into  ripples  he  had  been  made 
to  realize  that  within,  hidden  from  sight,  there 
was  some  mystery  clad  in  somber  velvet.  The 
thought  of  this  mystery  had  taken  possession  of 
him !  Hour  by  hour  he  had  watched  the  quiv- 
ering petals.  Night  had  fallen.  He  had  rested 
his  head  on  his  arms  and  had  slept — dreamed. 

At  dawn  the  awakening  had  come. 

The  petals  had  fallen  back.  The  secret  lay 
revealed.  And  the  wonderful  mystery  clad  in 
somber  velvet?  The  faint  perfume  that  had 
enervated  his  senses  ?  Gone !  Forever ! 

He  remembered  his  childish  disappointment. 

He  remembered  that  in  a  moment  of  ungov- 
ernable rage  he  had  set  his  fcTot  upon  the  with- 
ered flower,  and  had  ground  it  against  the  floor 
with  his  heel. 

A  moment  of  folly?  Of  unreasonable  mad- 
ness? Yes!  But  a  moment  pregnant  with 

meaning. 

***** 

A  servant  again  crossed  the  terrace,  this  time 


34  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

to  announce  his  mother.  De  Vesian  rose  and 
held  out  his  hands.  He  was  smiling  gaily.  His 
eyes  were  full  of  affection  and  tenderness. 
Madame  de  Vesian  walked  towards  him  brisk- 
ly. She  was  an  extraordinary-looking  woman. 
She  wore  a  pale  gold  transformation — so  far  as 
she  was  personally  concerned  any  one  might  have 
called  it  a  wig  without  giving  offence — and  there 
was  a  thick  coating  of  white  powder  on  her 
unnaturally  pink  skin.  Her  face  looked  puffy; 
no  other  word  would  describe  it.  Her  large, 
full  eyes  were  grey-blue  like  those  of  her  son, 
but  in  her  case  the  expression  was  actively  in- 
solent. Neither  tall  nor  short,  she  had  a  com- 
manding presence,  and  she  habitually  dressed 
like  a  young  girl,  in  flowing  laces  and  muslins. 
At  that  moment  she  was  wearing  a  wide- 
brimmed  Leghorn  hat,  weighed  down  with 
roses,  and  its  black  velvet  strings  were  loosely 
tied  under  her  chin.  She  was  a  woman  who 
might,  judging  from  her  appearance,  have  been 
any  age:  a  dissolute  youngish  woman,  a  well- 
preserved  grandmother.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
she  was  neither.  In  the  Almanach  de  Gotha 
her  age  was  plainly  stated — sixty-two.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-three  she  had  eloped,  to  her  par- 
ents' eternal  disgust,  with  Henri  de  Vesian,  who 
was  then  one  of  the  most  admired  and  hated 
men  in  Paris.  The  ill-matched  pair  had  lived 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  35 

together  on  and  off.  When,  finally,  as  the  re- 
sult of  a  dispute  in  a  club  card-room,  the  hus- 
band had  gone  out  with  Prince  Platoff,  and  had 
received  a  sword-thrust  through  the  right  lung, 
the  widow  had  made  no  pretence  of  sorrow.  She 
had  attended  the  funeral  in  a  white  satin  mantle 
and,  assisted  by  her  little  son,  had  carpeted  the 
grave  with  blood-red  roses.  Then  the  whole  affair 
had  passed  out  of  her  mind.  An  egoist  of  ego- 
ists, she  really  cared  for  her  son.  Her  affection 
for  him  had  not  the  power  to  influence  her  life, 
or  her  actions;  nevertheless  it  was  genuine 
enough.  She  liked  Guy !  And  she  liked  exper- 
imenting with  morphia  !  Also  she  liked — per- 
haps because  of  inherited  character,  perhaps 
because  of  impulses  driven  in  by  the  fatal  needle 
— to  eat  into  pliant  natures  as  the  moth  eats  into 
ermine.  She  was  essentially  what  the  Parisians 
call  "une  mechante." 

De  Vesian  raised  her  claw-like  hands  to  his 
lips — first  one  and  then  the  other. 

"This  is  charming,"  he  murmured  softly. 
"I'm  afraid  the  tea  is  cold,  but  in  a  mo- 
ment  " 

His  mother  glanced  contemptuously  at  the 
dainty  service  in  chased  silver  and  porcelain. 

"I  loathe  it.  I  met  Gabrielle  Borizoff  in  the 
Bois  this  morning.  That  pretty  Englishwoman 


36  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

was  with  her — Madame  Underwood.  The 
Princess  said  she  particularly  wished  to  see  you 
to-morrow  afternoon — it's  her  day." 

De  Vesian  nodded  and  smiled.  He  knew  very 
well  that  his  mother  had  not  paid  him  a  visit  for 
the  purpose  of  conveying  a  vague  invitation.  He 
patted  the  white  dog's  head  and  waited.  A  sig- 
nificant silence  followed.  Madame  de  Vesian's 
malicious  eyes  wandered  round  the  terrace.  At 
last  she  spoke. 

"That  boy,  Robin  Underwood,  isn't  quite  a 
fool.  He's  ultra-English  in  more  ways  than 
one.  I  don't  often  interfere  in  your  affairs,  but 
I  shouldn't  like  to  see  you  brought  home  as  your 
father  was." 

The  poet  smiled. 

"A  duel?     You  think  that  'ultra-English'?" 

"No!  But  these  Englishmen  can  stand  up 
for  their  own  when  they're  pushed  too  far." 

"  Their  own'  !  " 

The  smile  deepened  into  laughter. 

The  woman  leaned  back  in  her  rocking-chair 
and  swayed  to  and  fro. 

"Not  yet — perhaps.  But  he  has  made  up  his 
mind,  and  he  comes  of  a  bull-dog  race.  It's  not 
my  affair,  but  I  suggest  that  you  should  ask 
yourself  if  it's  quite  worth  while.  The  girl  is 
attractive  and  thoroughly  well-bred — no  blanch- 
isseuse  de  fin  or  smirking  concierge  in  her  family, 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  37 

but  I  ask  myself,  a  little,  is  it  worth  while?  The 
boy  hates  me,  and  of  course  you,  already.  He 
was  as  rude  as  a  well-mannered  young  English- 
man could  allow  himself  to  be  this  morning.  I 
don't  resent  his  rudeness — on  the  contrary  I 
rather  like  it.  But  I  see  a  storm  brewing,  a 
serious  storm,  and  I  ask  myself — is  it  worth 
while?" 

De  Vesian  stared  at  his  mother  in  genuine 
amazement.  Never  in  all  his  life  had  he  heard 
her  speak  so  seriously.  It  was  not  alone  her 
words — it  was  her  tone.  She  seemed,  for  the 
moment,  like  a  stranger. 

Without  ceasing  to  sway  backwards  and  for- 
wards the  Comtesse  watched  his  face.  A  slow, 
malicious  smile  crept  across  her  loose  mouth. 

"Old  age  creeping  on,"  she  said  quietly.  "I've 
made  the  pied  de  nez  at  the  duties  of  a  mother 
for  a  good  many  years,  and  now  that  facetious 
fiend  we  call  Nature  is  taking  a  revenge.  You 
thrust  yourself  into  my  dreams  last  night.  There 
was  a  ball  in  your  throat — and  blood.  It  upset 
me.  I'm  not  afraid  of  Lucienne  Gerome's 
theatrical  storms,  though  you  will  have  to  listen 
to  those,  of  course,  but  something  tells  me  you 
had  better  leave  that  girl  alone.  Something — I 
don't  know  what " 

With  a  sudden  movement  she  stood  up  and 
smoothed  out  her  crumpled  laces.  The  ex- 


38  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

pression  on  her  face  was  changed.  The  mo- 
mentary humanity  had  given  place  to  cynical 
indifference. 

"C'est  mon  metier  d'etre  poseuse — encore  une 
fois,  mon  metier." 

Without  another  word  she  turned  and  left  the 
terrace. 

De  Vesian  stood  and  watched  the  retreating 
figure  until  it  disappeared  through  an  open 
French  window.  Then  he  sank  back  in  his  chair 
and  closed  his  eyes,  as  if  courting  sleep. 


CHAPTER  III 

TSOLA  never  knew  exactly  how  she  got  back 
1  to  her  aunt's  flat  in  the  Rue  de  Douai  after 
the  scene  in  Lucienne  Gerome's  dressing-room. 
She  vaguely  remembered  that  the  manager 
had  drawn  her  into  his  den,  and  tried,  really 
very  gently,  to  rub  in  the  lesson.  She  remem- 
bered how  she  had  struggled  against  an  over- 
powering desire  to  break  into  tears,  and  how  at 
last  Rivaud  had  put  her  into  his  own  automobile 
and  sent  her  home. 

It  seemed  like  a  dreadful  nightmare.  She 
was  still  under  its  spell — though  more  than  two 
hours  had  elapsed  since  she  left  the  theater — 
though  she  was  safe  in  her  own  little  room,  with 
locked  door  and  the  plea  of  a  "violent  head- 
ache" hastily  written  on  a  scrap  of  paper  and 
flung  on  her  aunt's  writing-table. 

She  was  excited,  despairing,  miserable. 

She  looked  like  a  disconsolate  child  as  she  lay, 
huddled  up,  on  a  low  couch  by  an  open  window. 
Twilight  shadows  were  gathering  about  her. 
Her  white  wrapper  stood  out  against  a  length 
of  Japanese  embroidery  in  which  creamy  storks 
swept  across  a  sea  of  blue  and  green.  She  gave 

3? 


40  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

a  momentary  impression  of  Pavlova  in  the  death- 
tableau  of  Saint-Saens'  "Le  Cygne." 

For  a  long  time  she  lay  motionless.  She  had 
cried  passionately  just  at  first,  but  now  the  tears 
had  vanished;  even  the  sobs  had  grown  silent, 
except  at  long  intervals.  She  was  terribly  dis- 
appointed— frightened.  Her  dreams  had  been 
exquisite.  The  sudden  awakening  was  appall- 
ing. She  was  a  failure ! 

She  had  had  her  chance — a  chance  of  a  life- 
time. And  she  had  proved  herself  unworthy. 
"Madame  Lucienne,"  her  idol,  was  disgusted 
with  her.  "Monsieur  Jules"  had  tried  hard  to 
be  kind,  but  she  had  seen  the  twinkle  of  amused 
pity  in  his  eyes. 

It  was  all  finished! 

With  a  quick  movement,  in  which  her  youth 
betrayed  itself,  she  got  up  and  crossed  the  room 
to  her  little  white  bed. 

Close  by  it,  standing  alone  on  a  table,  was  a 
large  photograph  of  a  man — of  Miles  Bering, 
her  father. 

She  caught  it  up  and  returned  to  the  couch. 
Holding  the  broad  silver  frame  in  her  two  hands, 
she  leaned  forward  and  stared  at  the  pictured 
eyes — dark,  caressing,  mysterious  as  her  own. 

She  adored  him,  that  wonderful  father  whose 
name  was  sacred  in  the  world  of  art.  She 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  41 

early  taken  him  for  guide  and  close  friend,  in 
spirit.  In  the  flesh  she  had  never  seen  him,  for 
he  had  died  when  she  was  a  tiny  baby. 

Hot  tears  welled  up  again  as  she  silently 
questioned  the  pictured  face.  He  had  conquered 
his  world!  He  had  early  turned  his  steps  into 
the  path — she  knew  it  had  been  a  narrow  one — 
which  led  to  fame.  He  had  never  wavered ! 

She  knew  the  story  of  her  father's  life  in  every 
smallest  detail.  She  had  learned  it  from  her 
Aunt  Jessica — this  with  no  little  difficulty,  for 
Jessica  Dering  could  not  bear  to  speak  of  one 
who  had  been  the  center  of  her  world  and  who 
was  now  dead.  She  had  learned  it  from  enthusi- 
astic friends  and  admirers.  She  had  stood  before 
his  famous  portrait  of  the  Pope,  which  had  been 
given  a  place  of  honor  in  the  Vatican.  She  had 
in  her  own  possession  a  marvellous  portrait  of 
her  lovely  mother,  which  he  had  painted  in 
Japan  whilst  on  his  honeymoon.  This  portrait 
was  hanging  in  her  bedroom.  From  where  she 
sat  she  could  recognize  the  glory  of  love  and 
sunshine  on  her  mother's  exquisite  face. 

Strangely  enough,  she  never  thought  of 
asking  questions  of  this  portrait.  She  realized 
its  beauty  and  charm.  She  gloried  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  her  mother  had  been  one  of  the  love- 
liest of  women,  but  she  did  not  feel  that  she 
knew  her.  Her  friend  of  friends  was  her  father ! 


42  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

***** 

The  moments  crept  past  and  still  the  girl 
silently  questioned  the  man's  dark  eyes.  In  what 
had  she  done  wrong?  Where  had  been  the 
fault  ?  What  would  he  have  said  if  he  had  been 
alive?  For  months  her  life  had  seemed  like  a 
delicious  dream.  Her  chance  had  come.  She 
was  actually  on  the  stage — the  charmed  stage  of 
a  famous  Paris  theater.  She  had  been  singled 
out  for  special  notice  by  the  greatest  actress  of 
the  century.  Daily,  hourly,  she  had  had  an 
opportunity  of  watching  that  wonderful  woman 
— of  speaking  to  her — of  acting  with  her!  It 
seemed  too  splendid  to  be  true,  and  yet — it  was 
true.  Her  great  chance  had  come  and  she  had 
failed  to  seize  it.  She  pressed  the  pictured  face 
against  her  lips.  "Help  me "  she  mur- 
mured. "Father — help  me." 

He  was  her  idol — her  saint. 

It  seemed  absolutely  natural  to  talk  to  him, 
even  to  pray  to  him.  She  was  convinced  that  he 
was  alive,  somewhere — that  he  had  the  power, 
and  surely  the  will,  to  help  his  lonely  little  girl. 
It  was  her  great  secret,  this  intimate  friendship 
with  her  dead  father.  She  had  never  spoken  of 
it  to  any  one — except  once,  for  a  moment,  to 
Robin  Underwood.  The  young  Englishman's 
pride  in  his  mother,  his  openly  expressed  affec- 
tion, had  unlocked,  for  an  instant,  the  doors  of 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  43 

her  heart.  She  remembered  how  he  had  looked 
at  that  moment — his  dark  blue  eyes  flashing 
with  fervid  admiration  and  one  of  his  strong 
brown  hands  touching,  for  a  second,  one  of  hers. 

"I  say — how  splendid!" 

He  had  spoken  like  the  boy  that  he  was,  but 
an  impression  of  strength  had  remained  with  her 
— something  of  the  same  strength  that  held  out 
mysterious  hands  to  her  when  she  communed 
with  her  father's  portrait. 

Very  reverently  she  laid  the  picture  down  on 
the  couch  by  her  side.  She  sat  up  straight. 
Her  hands  were  tightly  clasped  on  her  knees. 
She  was  trying  to  review  the  past  few  months — 
the  past  few  years — her  mad  desire  to  become 
an  actress :  a  desire  which  had  devoured  her  ever 
since  the  memorable  day  when  she  had  been 
taken  to  see  Sarah  Bernhardt  play  Adrienne 
Lecouvreur. 

That  day  had  been  the  turning-point  of  her 
life. 

How  well  she  remembered  it!  Some  artist 
friends  of  her  father  had  thought  to  give  the 
lonely  child  a  treat.  They  had  smuggled  her 
into  a  box  at  a  Bernhardt  matinee ! 

It  had  all  been  meant  in  kindness,  but  Isola 
never  forgot  her  aunt's  displeasure,  nor  her  own 
awakening  ambitions. 


44  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

After  that  eventful  matinee  there  had  fol- 
lowed months  of  unrest. 

Her  aunt  was  her  guardian.  Isola  owed  her 
much — everything,  almost.  But  between  the 
two  there  was  no  real  sympathy. 

There  had  been  terrible  scenes;  for  the  girl 
was  headstrong  and  the  aunt,  for  a  time,  inflex- 
ible. Then  had  come  a  final  outbreak.  Isola 
had,  alone,  sought  out  Jules  Rivaud.  She  had 
discovered,  from  one  of  the  same  artist  friends 
who  had  taken  her  to  see  Bernhardt,  that  the 
manager  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  her  father's 
paintings.  She  had  sought  him  out:  had,  in- 
coherently, laid  bare  her  ambitious  dreams.  And 
Rivaud  had  been  interested.  The  girl  was  love- 
ly! Probably  clever!  It  might  be  worth 
while ! 

All  unknown  to  her  aunt  she  had  been  taken  to 
Lucienne  Gerome's  dressing-room — she  had  been 
asked  to  recite  "something!"  What  a  moment 
of  moments ! 

Even  now,  in  her  hour  of  despair,  she  lived  it 
over  again ! 

Sarah  Bernhardt  had  been  her  mascot.  And 
because  she  had  heard  that  the  famous  actress 
had  recited  a  hackneyed  old  fable  when  she 
appeared  before  the  authorities  of  the  Con- 
servatoire, she,  too,  stood  up  and  recited  the 
same  fable. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  45 

Deux  pigeons  s'aimaient  d'amour  tendre, 
L'un  d'eux  s'ennuyant. — etc.,  etc. 

And  she  had  made  a  success ! 

Lucienne  Gerome  had  embraced  her  warmly, 
had  refused  to  believe  that  she  had  no  French 
blood  in  her  veins.  Jules  Rivaud  had  loudly 
asserted  that  he  had  never  in  his  life  heard  a 
foreigner  speak  French  with  such  a  perfect 
accent. 

It  had  been  a  glorious  moment! 

And  a  little  later  her  cup  of  happiness  had 
overflowed  when  the  poet,  Guy  de  Vesian,  had 
entered  the  room  and  when  Madame  Gerome 
had  commanded  her  to  recite  again.  That  time, 
prompted  by  a  childish  wish  to  do  something 
audacious,  she  seated  herself  at  the  piano  and 
spoke,  rather  than  sang,  the  "Colloque  Sentimen- 
tal" of  Paul  Verlaine,  with  the  Debussy  music. 

Dans  le  vieux  pare  solitaire  et  glace 

Deux  formes  ont  tout  a  1'heure  passe. 

Leurs  yeux  sont  morts  et  leurs  levres  sont  molles, 

Et  Ton  entend  a  peine  leurs  paroles. 

Dans  le  vieux  pare  solitaire  et  glace 

Deux  spectres  ont  evoque  le  passe. 

Te   souvient-il   de   notre  extase   ancienne? 
Pourquoi  voulez-vous  done  qu'il  m'en  souvienne? 
Ton  coeur  bat-il  toujours  a  mon  seul  nom? 
Toujours  vois-tu  mon  ame  en  reve?    Non. 


46  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

— Ah !  Les  beaux  jours  de  bonheur  indicible 
Ou  nous  joignions  nos  bouches! — C'est  possible. 
— Qu'il  etait  bleu,  le  ciel,  et  grand  1'espoir! 
— L'espoir  a  fui,  vaincu,  vers  le  ciel  noir. 

Tels  ils  marchaient  dans  les  avoines  folles, 
Et  la  nuit  seule  entendit  leurs  paroles. 

It  had  been  a  veritable  triumph! 

Every  one  had  applauded  with  a  vehemence 
that  could  not  be  mistaken. 

Lucienne  Gerome,  with  characteristic  impul- 
siveness, had  given  her  a  place  in  her  company. 
Rivaud  had  warmly  congratulated  her. 

Only  the  poet  had  remained  silent. 

And  yet,  when  Isola  thought  over  that  en- 
chanted scene,  later  on,  the  expression  of  de 
Vesian's  eyes  seemed  to  have  been  the  greatest 
compliment  of  all. 

He  had  tapped  his  hands  together  softly,  as  in 
duty  bound,  but  what  he  had  thought  had  been 
silently  expressed — to  the  girl  alone. 

Far  up  in  the  heights  of  Montmartre  there 
stands  a  majestic  cupola  which  is  shaped  in 
gracious  curves  and  which  glistens  like  pale 
silver  under  the  touch  of  ardent  sun  or  mystic 
moon. 

Within  its  swelling  dome  rests  the  largest  bell 
in  France — the  giant  "Savoyarde"  which  came 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  47 

as  a  votive  offering  from  the  simple  folk  of 
Savoy.  Some  one  has  spoken  of  the  Church  of 
the  Sacre  Coeur  as  "a  star  in  the  forehead  of 
Paris,"  but  it  is  more  than  that.  It  is  the  crown 
of  the  famous  Fille  de  Lumiere. 

From  the  Sacre  Coeur  came  the  sound  of  the 
Angelus  bell. 

Isola  left  the  low  couch  and  walked  slowly  to 
the  window. 

She  was  thinking  furiously. 

Failure — or  success  ?    Which  was  it  to  be  ? 

Did  the  answer  to  this  question  rest  with  her 
intelligence  ? 

In  certain  roles  she  could  succeed.  Of  that 
she  felt  certain. 

She  dared  to  believe  that  she  could  play 
Juliet!  In  her  dreams  she  had  found  herself 
speaking  the  burning  words  of  Adrienne  Le- 
couvreur — and  understanding  them.  The  life- 
story  of  that  famous  actress  fascinated  her:  her 
mad  passion  for  Maurice  de  Saxe — her  strength 
— her  weakness — her  tragic  death. 

She  had  seen  Lucienne  Gerome  play  Adrienne 
many  times.  Rivaud  and  de  Vesian  had  re- 
written the  play  for  her.  In  the  last  act  she 
spoke  the  actual  words  which  had  been  spoken 
by  Adrienne  as  the  hand  of  death  laid  a  veil  on 
her  eyes — "There  is  my  world,  my  hope — yes, 


48  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

and  my  God."  And  she  had  spoken  of  Maurice 
de  Saxe.  She  had  spoken  in  the  presence  of  a 
priest — in  answer  to  his  frantic  command  that 
she  should  "repent."  Isola — who  had  been  ed- 
ucated in  a  convent — knew  that  last  heart-cry  to 
be  impious,  but — it  was  so  exquisitely  human. 
She  understood  it!  Understood  it  as  she  could 
never,  so  she  feared,  understand  the  inner  work- 
ings of  "Madeleine  Delorme's"  nature. 

She  leaned  her  hot  face  against  the  window- 
sill  and  looked  out. 

It  was  a  dreary  old  street — the  Rue  de  Douai. 
She  would  have  hated  it  but  for  its  intimate 
associations  with  her  father. 

Her  ardent  nature  craved  for  color  and  lux- 
ury and  brilliant  surroundings.  She  wanted  to 
live — not  merely  to  exist,  peacefully — like 
"Aunt  Jessica!" 

And  then,  suddenly,  her  thoughts  flowed  back 
to  the  days  when  she  had  taken  a  desperate 
stand,  when  she  had  openly  defied  her  aunt's  au- 
thority, when  she  had  declared  her  intention  of 
adopting  the  stage  as  a  profession — come  what 
might.  It  had  been  a  terrible  struggle.  Miss 
Bering  had  tried  to  influence  her  niece  by  every 
means  in  her  power.  She  had  been  amazed — 
disgusted — really  angry;  and  then  frigid.  She 
had  not  known  where  to  turn  for  help — that 
poor,  quiet  little  woman  whose  well  of  happi- 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  49 

ness  had  suddenly  dried  up,  years  before,  when 
the  news  of  a  certain  awful  accident  had  reached 
Rome.  She  had  adored  her  brother.  She  had 
always,  in  her  heart,  disliked,  almost  hated,  his 
wife.  And  now — their  only  daughter !  Left  in 
her  care — absolutely! 

It  is  quite  possible  that  Jessica  Bering  might 
have  lost  her  reason  in  those  days  of  wild  un- 
certainty if  an  old  friend,  one  who  had  known 
the  painter,  had  not  forced  her  confidence  and 
tendered  advice. 

"Let  her  have  plenty  of  rope,"  this  friend  had 
said,  with  something  of  a  smile.  "Isola  is  at 
heart  a  good  little  girl.  Let  her  have  plenty  of 
rope — she  won't  hang  herself  with  it,  in  the 
end." 

And  Jessica,  after  many  dark  days,  had  taken 
the  advice.  She  had  given  her  niece  permission 
to  study  for  the  stage ;  she  had  even  had  one  or 
two  interviews  with  Jules  Rivaud  on  the  sub- 
ject. She  was  desperately  unhappy  about  the 
whole  affair,  but  she  tried  to  believe  that  her 
worldly-wise  adviser  had  been  right.  That  "in 
the  end"  all  would  be  well. 

Isola  was  still  peering  out  into  the  shadows 
that  were  gathering  in  the  dull  old  street. 

It  was  situated  in  the  heart  of  Montmartre. 
In  its  own  way  it  was  famous.  Poets,  painters, 


50  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

and  hewers  of  stone  had  lived,  sometimes 
starved,  in  the  tall  houses  which  closed  it  in  on 
either  side.  Dreamers  and  great  workers  had 
crushed  the  pavements  with  their  feet  and  had 
passed  nervous  hands  over  the  balustrades  of 
stairs  which  led  to  u^^me-etage  Ateliers." 

It  was  a  dreary  street,  but  her  father  had 
lived  there. 

In  that  old  house,  close  to  the  Julian  Atelier, 
the  "Painter  of  Souls"  had  passed  his  early  days. 
And  the  flat  was  very  little  changed  since  the 
time  when  that  splendid  old  Irishman,  John 
Fitzgerald,  Isola's  great-uncle,  had  gathered  the 
cream  of  Bohemian  Paris  under  his  hospitable 
roof,  since  the  time  when  Carriere  and  Dolent 
and  Doyenbert  had  sat  round  the  supper-table 
and  had  learned  to  appreciate  Limerick  bacon. 

It  was  an  old  house,  unbeautiful  in  exterior 
but  comfortable.  And  her  father  had  lived 
there ! 

Some  one  knocked  softly  on  the  door.  Isola 
hesitated.  Then  she  crossed  the  room  and  turned 
the  key. 

"Come  in,  Auntie,"  she  said  gently. 

As  Jessica  Dering  advanced  into  the  room  one 
realized  that  the  passing  years  had  changed  her 
very  little.  She  was  still  the  quiet,  steadfast 
woman  of  soulful  eyes  that  she  had  been  in  the 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  51 

long-ago  days  when  she  and  her  adored  brother 
had  occupied  a  suite  of  rooms  in  the  Via  Giulia 
in  Rome — those  dear  days  when  she  had  had 
him  all  to  herself,  before  his  marriage — long  be- 
fore the  accident  which  caused  his  death. 

Twenty-three  years  before  she  had  been  thirty- 
two.  Now  she  was  fifty-five.  But  she  was  very 
little  changed. 

Her  figure  was  still  fragile,  her  face  still 
pathetically  sweet  and  pretty.  Her  deep  blue 
eyes,  fringed  with  long,  black  lashes,  were  still 
the  mirrors  of  a  pure  and  lofty  soul.  To  the 
ordinary  observer,  even  to  Clio  Underwood,  who 
had  known  her  so  well  in  the  old  days,  she 
seemed  unchanged,  but  it  was  none  the  less  true 
that  all  that  had  made  her  life  worth  living  had 
vanished  on  the  day  when  a  certain  fatal  tele- 
gram had  reached  her — in  Rome;  the  telegram 
which  announced  her  brother's  death. 

He  had  been  induced  to  visit  Sicily,  with  an  in- 
timate friend,  after  the  tragic  duel  between  Life 
and  Death  which  had  left  Isola  motherless.  He 
had  been  visiting  some  lonely  parts  of  that 
romantic  country.  There  had  been  an  accident 
with  a  pistol.  And  then — death! 

Within  a  short  three  weeks  the  little  baby  with 
the  dark,  dreamy  eyes  had  been  deprived  of  both 
father  and  mother,  and  Jessica  Dering  had  en- 
tered into  a  life  of  ceaseless  regret. 


52  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

Jessica  looked  round  the  room.  How  fra- 
grant it  was!  Delightfully  fresh!  Indian  silk 
curtains  in  pale  rose-pink,  muslins  and  dainty 
laces,  a  few  cut-glass  bottles  on  the  dressing 
table,  dull  silver  monograms  on  the  ivory  brushes 
and  mirrors,  and  flowers — roses — everywhere! 

She  had  tried  to  give  her  niece  all  the  pretty 
things  that  girls  love ;  she  had  tried,  very  hard, 
to  do  her  duty. 

A  faint  smile  brightened  her  sad  face  as  she 
laid  a  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder.  Isola's  color 
rose.  She  was  fond  of  her  aunt,  but  they  had 
never  arrived  at  being  close  friends.  Jessica 
always  strove  to  be  cheerful,  even  gay,  when  with 
the  young  girl,  but  she  was  conscious  that  a  bar- 
rier lay  between  them.  And  that  barrier  was 
her  own  dislike  for  the  woman  who  had  given 
Isola  birth.  She  had  fought  hard  against  this 
feeling.  She  had  prayed  to  be  delivered  from  it 
— in  vain.  The  horror  which,  even  at  the  first, 
she  had  felt  for  Violet  Hilliard  never  left  her. 
On  the  contrary  it  seemed  to  increase  as  the  years 
glided  by.  She  almost  hated  the  memory  of  the 
lovely  girl  her  brother  had  worshipped. 

"You  had  a  long  rehearsal  to-day?  You  are 
tired?"  Isola  bent  her  head  in  assent. 

"Everything  is  going  well — I  hope?" 

Jessica  was  really  trying  to  seem  interested. 
She  loathed  the  idea  of  the  stage  as  a  profession 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  53 

for  her  niece,  but  she  had  given  an  unwilling 
consent.  It  was  her  duty  to  take  an  active 
interest. 

Isola  looked  up  eagerly.  At  that  moment  her 
heart  was  so  full  that  she  longed  to  confide  in 
some  one. 

"No — horribly  badly.  Madame  Lucienne  was 
disgusted  with  me — and  Monsieur  Jules.  I  don't 
know  why  it  is,  but  I  can't  put  myself — my  real 
self — into  the  part.  I  don't  seem  to  feel  it — 
I'm  in  despair." 

Jessica  patted  the  flushed  cheek.  She  wished 
she  could  find  it  natural  to  kiss  her  niece,  but 
caresses  rarely  passed  between  them. 

"I  have  never  read  the  play.  I  should  like  to 
see  it.  Have  you  the  manuscript  here?" 

A  burning  flush  mounted  to  the  girl's  face. 
She  caught  her  breath.  There  was  a  moment  of 
painful  hesitation.  Then  she  went  to  a  table 
and  opened  a  flat  sack  covered  in  dark  blue 
leather. 

"I'm  afraid  you  won't  like  it,  Auntie.  It's 
rather  a  curious  little  piece.  Quite  exaggerated- 
ly modern,  I  think." 

She  tried  to  speak  naturally,  but  her  voice 
trembled. 

Her  aunt  looked  at  her  sharply. 

"Yes?     I  suppose  most  of  the  plays  at  the 


54  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

Theatre  Gerome  might  be  called  'exaggeratedly 
modern.'    May  I  see  it?" 

She  held  out  her  hand.  Isola  gave  her  the 
manuscript  without  another  word. 

There  was  silence  in  the  pretty  room. 

Very  quietly  the  girl  moved  about — arranging 
her  things.  Every  now  and  then  she  glanced 
furtively  at  her  aunt's  bent  figure.  She  had 
dreaded  this  moment.  The  story  of  the  play 
was  a  peculiar  one :  very  French.  But  there  was 
always  the  chance  that  her  aunt  might  not  quite 
realize  its  meaning. 

With  restless  fingers  Jessica  Bering  turned  the 
pages.  As  she  did  so  a  tinge  of  color  began  to 
creep  into  her  pale  cheeks. 

This  play !  How  insidiously  horrible  it  was  ! 
How  detestably  clever!  The  intimate  study  of 
an  ultra-modern  jeune  fille,  whose  mind  was  as 
corrupt  as  her  body  was  fresh  and  beautiful;  the 
story  of  a  girl  who  had  whispered  about  vice  to 
her  comrades  in  her  convent-school,  who  had 
heard  their  halting  whispers — their  thoughts — 
their  vague  desires;  the  story  of  a  girl  who 
looked  like  an  angel  but  whose  imagination  was 
tainted;  a  girl  who  craved  for  "experiences," 
and  who  early  determined  to  realize  them. 

A  very  modern  French  play  indeed,  full  of 
subtle  intuition,  full  of  insight,  of  cruel  truth. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  55 

Two  crimson  spots  settled  in  Miss  Bering's 
cheeks.  She  bent  her  head  lower  and  read  on 
and  on. 

The  inner  meaning  of  the  play  began  to  stamp 
itself  on  her  brain.  It  was  a  diabolical  study  of 
temperament.  The  still  young  mother  loved  the 
amant  who  had  been  devoted  to  her  for  years. 
The  daughter  knew  nothing  of  real  love,  but  she 
craved  for  violent  emotions.  And  the  end?  The 
mother,  in  an  agony  of  despair  at  finding  herself 
deserted  by  the  man  she  adores,  takes  poison. 
And  the  daughter?  Already  she  is  glorying  in 
the  contemplation  of  future  possibilities.  She  is 

young,  beautiful,  untrammelled  by  home  ties. 
***** 

Miss  Bering  closed  the  thin  volume  of  manu- 
script with  a  passionate  gesture  of  disgust. 

"They  want  you  to  play  this  part?  They  want 
you  to  represent  this  horrible  girl,  'Madeleine 
Belorme  ?'  Monsieur  Rivaud  is  connected  with 
the  production  of  this  piece — he  approves  of 
it?" 

"Auntie!" 

Isola  came  to  her  side  in  a  little  rush.  She 
was  trembling  with  excitement. 

"Auntie!  You  won't  make  any  objection — 
it's  my  great  chance.  It's  one  of  the  most  won- 
derful chances  a  girl  ever  had.  Just  think  of  it ! 
An  English  girl — almost  without  stage  experi- 


56  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

ence,  to  play  in  an  important  piece  at  the  Thea- 
tre Gerome !  And  with  Madame  Lucienne ! 
It's  simply  a  miracle,  and  if  I  succeed  everything 
will  be  easy  for  me — everything.  Of  course  I 
know  it's  rather  a  dreadful  piece  in  some  ways, 
but  Gaston  Lery  is  an  idol  in  Paris,  and  he  has 
paid  me  an  extraordinary  compliment  in  choos- 
ing me  for  the  part  of  Madeleine.  It's  all  so 
wonderful  that  sometimes  I  can't  realize  it's 
really  true." 

Her  aunt  stared  at  her  in  dumb  horror. 

The  girl  was  breathless.  Her  eyes  were  blaz- 
ing with  excitement.  A  flash  of  gorgeous  color 
made  her  ivory  skin  look  startlingly  fair.  She 
was  so  amazingly  like  her  dead  mother  that 
Jessica  found  it  impossible  to  speak. 

Once  more  she  was  face  to  face  with  Violet 
Milliard. 

Once  more  she  was  in  contact  with  a  character 
in  which  warring  elements  tore  at  each  other 
with  relentless  energy. 

She  shuddered  slightly  and  closed  her  eyes. 
Violent  words  leaped  to  her  lips  but  she  tried  to 
suppress  them.  She  wished  to  be  just — that  at 
least. 

As  she  stood  before  her  niece  she  saw  an 
expression  of  proud  impatience  flash  into  the 
girl's  eyes. 

She  waited. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  57 

A  moment  later  Isola  broke  out. 

"Aunt  Jessica — you  don't  understand!  I  think 
you've  forgotten  what  girls  are  like — what  they 
think — what  they  feel.  You've  lived  such  a 
beautiful  shut-in  life,  always  going  about  doing 
good  to  people,  that  you  haven't  had  time  to 
realize  that  people  are  very  human,  that  lots  of 
people  don't  care  about  doing  good — or  even 
being  good — or  anything  of  that  sort " 

She  was  trying,  with  desperate  eagerness,  to 
defend  her  position.  Any  one  who  understood 
her  would  have  realized,  easily,  that  the  defence 
was  an  outburst  of  childish  bravado;  but  to 
Jessica  Bering  it  seemed  a  deliberate  declaration 
of  genuine  feeling.  She  drew  back. 

"You  wish  me  to  believe  that  you  understand 
the  character  of  this  horrible  girl?  That  you 
sympathize  with  it — that  you  are  going  to  play 
this  disgusting  part  in  public?" 

"But,  of  course — Auntie !  You  wouldn't  do 
it — you  wouldn't  spoil  my  chance  of  such  a 
splendid  success?  You  aren't  going  to  make  any 
objection — now?" 

Impulsively  the  girl  caught  the  thin  hands 
and  held  them  tightly.  For  a  moment  Miss 
Bering  stood  motionless.  Then,  very  deliber- 
ately, she  loosened  the  detaining  fingers. 

"I  shall  speak  to  an  old  friend,  who  happens 
to  be  in  Paris  at  present,  about  this  play.  Mr. 


58  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

Leslie  js  a  man  of  the  world,  and  he  knew  your 
father  very  well.  His  opinion  would  be  valu- 
able. So  far  as  I  am  myself  concerned,  I  should 
not  hesitate  to  forbid  you  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  such  a  dreadful  piece.  But  then  I  am 
prejudiced.  I  greatly  dislike  the  stage — as  you 
know." 

"Aunt  Jessica!" 

Passionate  indignation  had  brought  hot  tears 
to  the  girl's  eyes.  Miss  Dering  took  no  notice 
of  them.  Very  quietly  she  folded  up  the  type- 
written papers  and  placed  them  on  the  table. 
She  turned  and  walked  towards  the  door.  When 
her  hand  touched  the  handle  she  spoke. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  discuss  the  subject  of  thea- 
ter life — again.  You  have  made  it  very  plain 
that  you  consider  you  have  a  right  to  carve  out 
your  own  career — and  you  may  be  right.  At 
any  rate,  I  have  decided  to  give  you  freedom — 
so  far  as  may  be  possible.  But  I  ask  you  to 
pause  and  consider  what  you  are  doing.  I  want 
you  to  ask  yourself,  seriously,  if  you  can  bear  the 
idea  of  coming  before  the  public  in  such  a  char- 
acter, to  ask  yourself  if  you  really  understand 
such  a  character — if  you  really  sympathize 
with  it." 

There  was  horror  in  the  even  tones;  and 
with  the  horror  something  of  disgust.  Isola's 
quick  temper  was  roused. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  «  59 

"I  think  it's  a  splendid  part,  Aunt  Jessica.  I 
don't  understand  it,  quite,  yet;  but  that's  be- 
cause I  have  had  so  little  experience.  I  think 
Madeleine  Delorme  is  just  a  natural  girl — like 
ever  so  many  other  girls.  We're  not  all  born 
perfect,  you  know ;  and  we  all  like  to  be  admired 
and  made  much  of." 

She  spoke  violently.  Burning  tears  were 
standing  in  her  eyes,  but  she  would  not  let  them 
be  seen.  She  was  intensely  hurt,  but  she  would 
not  give  way.  She  had  much  of  her  father's 
dominant  temper  and  very  much  of  her  mother's 
craving  for  appreciation.  It  had  been  a 
terrible  day.  She  could  not  bear  very  much 
more. 

Miss  Bering  stared  at  her.  She  had  grown 
very  white.  She  looked  old  and  worn. 

For  several  minutes  there  was  silence.  Then 
the  door-handle  was  turned  decidedly. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  Isola.  I  almost  think 
you  are.  I  do  not  understand  what  Monsieur 
Lery  has  called  La  Jeune  fille  de  Demain,  but 
it  appears  that  you  do.  I  shall  consult  Mr.  Les- 
lie about  the  play — that  I  feel  to  be  my  duty. 
But  if  he  and  others  approve  of  it,  I  shall  raise 
no  objections.  You  have  chosen  your  profes- 
sion, and  I  suppose  you  must  go  through  with 
it,  only — please  do  not  discuss  theatrical  matters 
in  my  presence.  They  have  no  interest  for  me." 


60  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

She  had  gone  before  the  girl  could  reply — if 

she  had  wished  to  do  so. 

***** 

Long  after  her  aunt  had  left  the  room  Isola 
lay  huddled  up  on  the  couch  by  the  window.  Her 
head  was  buried  in  her  arms,  but  she  was  not 
crying.  Hot  tears — tears  of  anger  and  of  wild 
impatience — had  welled  up  again  and  again, 
only  to  find  themselves  driven  back.  She  was  in- 
tensely proud,  this  little  daughter  of  Ireland  and 
England — proud  and  terribly  sensitive.  As  the 
moments  glided  slowly  by,  her  tangled  thoughts 
began  to  stand  apart,  one  from  the  other.  The 
passion  of  anger  died  away.  She  still  bitterly 
resented  her  aunt's  attitude,  but  she  began  to 
understand  it.  "Poor  Aunt  Jessica !  What 
could  she  know  of  life?" 

She  sprang  up  and  smoothed  some  little 
creases  from  her  white  wrapper.  Her  eyes  were 
alight  with  fresh  determination;  there  was  a 
glow  of  excitement  on  her  soft  cheeks.  With 
quick  steps  she  crossed  to  the  dressing-table  and 
took  up  a  large  bottle  of  perfume.  As  she 
sprayed  a  little  of  it  over  her  arms  and  neck  she 
lifted  her  head  and  sniffed  daintily.  The  room 
was  filled  with  the  fragrance  of  white  roses. 

Almost  unconsciously  she  glanced  across  to 
the  portrait  of  her  father.  She  loved  this  scent 
because  he  had  loved  it.  She  remembered  how 


WHAT  IS  LOVE1?  61 

her  aunt  had  mentioned  the  painter's  weakness 
for  one  special  perfume;  she  remembered  how 
eagerly  she  had  demanded  the  name.  Ever  since 
then  white-rose  perfume  had  been  closely  asso- 
ciated with  her  father;  she  never  dreamed  of 
using  any  other. 

Spraying  the  pale  green  liquid  on  her  little 
pink  palms  she  caught  up  the  book  of  manu- 
script and  returned  to  the  couch.  She  was  de- 
termined to  realize  the  part.  She  must  make  a 
success  of  it !  With  passionate  eagerness  she 
repeated  the  familiar  words.  Now  giving  them 
one  intonation — now  another.  She  stood  up  and 
mingled  gestures  with  words.  She  imagined 
herself  on  the  stage  of  the  Theatre  Gerome — 
taking  part  in  the  exciting  scenes. 

Her  voice  was  deliciously  mellow,  a  voice  full 
of  promise:  golden  as  was  the  voice  of  Bern- 
hardt  in  early  youth.  It  was  this  rich  voice 
which  had  first  attracted  Lucienne  Gerome's  at- 
tention. 

She  was  letter-perfect.  Words — subtle  sen- 
tences— flowed  out  with  absolute  ease.  Her 
French  accent  was  extraordinarily  perfect.  She 
was  an  ideal  "Madeleine  Delorme"  so  far  as 
appearance  went. 

What  was  wanting? 

Again  and  again  she  ran  through  the  part, 
straining  every  nerve  in  order  to  understand  it — 


62  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

to  realize  its  possibilities.  So  much  of  it  seemed 
to  her  natural — a  lovely  young  girl  who  asked 
ceaseless  questions  of  life,  who  demanded  joy 
and  color  and  adulation,  who  passionately 
wanted  to  live  every  moment  of  her  existence. 

It  seemed  to  Isola  that  she  did  understand 
the  character,  only — not  as  "Madame  Lucienne" 
understood  it ! 

Breathless,  she  sank  back  into  a  chair  and 
flung  the  book  away.  What  had  he  said  that 
afternoon — Monsieur  Gaston  Lery? 

"Mademoiselle,  you  must  try  to  realize  the 
difference  between  a  feminine  creature  who  loves 
her  lover  and  one  who  loves — love !" 

He  had  spoken  so  gently.  His  dark,  fevered 
eyes  had  flickered  as  he  bent  over  her.  For  a 
single  moment  he  had  laid  a  burning  hand  on 
her  shoulder. 

"One  who  loves — love?" 

Isola  repeated  the  words  softly  more  than 
once. 

"One  who  loves — love?" 

She  knew  the  dramatist  had  meant  to  make 
her  realize  that  a  gulf  lay  between  the  two  fem- 
inine creatures  he  had  suggested,  but  what  was 
the  real  nature  of  that  gulf? 

Try  as  she  might  she  could  not  follow  the 
idea. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE4?  63 

If  a  woman — a  girl — loves  her  lover  she  loves 
love — surely  ? 

With  restless  steps  she  paced  up  and  down  the 
room,  silent  at  moments,  then  speaking  broken 
sentences — broken  phrases  taken  from  the  play. 

What  was  it  she  could  not  understand  ? 

It  had  grown  dark.  Rain  had  fallen.  From 
a  lamp  in  the  street  there  came  yellow  gleams 
which  touched  the  drops  on  the  window-panes, 
making  them  gleam  like  fire  opals.  In  her  white 
robe  the  girl  looked  strangely  unreal,  silhouetted 
against  the  mysterious  shadows  that  filled  the 
room. 

She  crossed  to  the  corner  where  her  bed 
stood  and  turned  on  the  electric  lamp  that  hung 
over  it.  Her  eyes  rested  momentarily  on  a 
curiously  fashioned  silver  vase  filled  with  white 
roses.  She  smiled  as  she  took  it  in  her  hand. 
Robin  Underwood  had  given  it  to  her  on  her 
birthday. 

Robin  Underwood! 

The  smile  deepened  as  her  thoughts  rested 
with  the  English  boy  who  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her  "at  first  sight" !  who  had  asked  her 
with  passionate  eagerness  to  marry  him  when 
they  had  only  known  each  other  three  weeks! 

He  was  so  charming  in  many  ways,  full  of 
enthusiasms,  perfectly  groomed,  entirely  given 


64  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

over  to  the  practice  of  making  flattering 
speeches,  and  of  surrounding  his  women-folk 
with  delightful  little  attentions. 

He  was  charming.    But  to  marry  him ! 

Isola  threw  back  her  dainty  head  and  gave 
the  silver  vase  a  mischievous  flip  with  the  tips 
of  her  fingers. 

No !    She  was  married  to  her  Art. 

She  whispered  the  words  more  than  once,  and 
they  seemed  imbued  with  mysterious  meaning. 
Wedded  to  Art ! 

She  raised  one  of  the  white  roses  to  her  face 
and  inhaled  its  subtle  sweetness.  A  delicious, 
sensuous  calm  seemed  to  steal  over  her  excited 
brain.  Still  holding  the  rose  in  her  hand  she 
sank  back  into  a  chair  and  closed  her  dark  eyes. 

How  wonderfully  he  had  spoken  about  the 
dominion  of  Art,  of  her  claims — for  he  had 
insisted  that  Art  was  an  exquisite  woman — of 
her  cruelty — of  her  divine  rewards ! 

Art  demanded  the  whole  of  one's  life.  In  re- 
turn she  gave  one  hour  of  perfect  bliss,  perhaps  ? 
One  hour  of  perfect  understanding ! 

De  Vesian's  eyes,  humid  with  emotion, 
seemed  to  take  shape  in  the  shadows.  His  sen- 
sitive mouth — his  curved  lips — seemed  to  smile 
at  her.  A  flood  of  color  rose  to  her  cheeks.  She 
was  alone,  but  she  felt  strangely  shy. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  65 

For  many  moments  she  sat  quite  still — her 
dark  eyes  resting  on  the  shadows  which  had  sud- 
denly taken  form — her  childish  lips  parted — the 
laces  of  her  white  wrapper  quivering  because  her 
heart  was  beating  violently. 

He  was  wonderful ! 

And  he  believed  in  her. 

That  seemed  strangest  of  all. 

He  believed  she  had  a  great  talent,  that  one 
day  she  might  be  world-famous  as  Madame 
Lucienne — almost. 

It  seemed  incredible,  but  it  was  gloriously 
true.  For  had  he  not  said  as  much?  And  was 
he  not  the  jealous  guardian  of  those  realms  of 

Art  which  he  considered  sacred? 

***** 

Night  had  fallen.  In  the  streets  of  Paris 
light-hearted  crowds  were  pouring  into  brilliant- 
ly lighted  cafes  and  theaters. 

Within  stone's  throw  of  the  Rue  de  Douai 
the  famous  cabarets  of  Montmartre  were  begin- 
ning to  prepare  for  their  midnight  orgies.  At 
the  Red-Mill  there  were  workers  eagerly  light- 
ing fairy  lamps  which  made  the  trees  sparkle 
cunningly. 

Paris  was  awakening  to  its  real  life.  Through 
the  open  windows  there  came  a  faint  sound  of 
dreamy  waltz  music  from  a  neighboring  restau- 
rant. 


66  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

And  in  the  little  pink  and  white  bedroom  ill- 
assorted  emotions,  like  masked  figures  at  a  car- 
nival ball,  danced  a  cancan — ambition,  girlish 
ignorance  which  believed  itself  to  be  knowledge, 
restless  longings  for  admiration  and  for  fame, 
impatient  struggles  against  a  control  which  did 
not  spring  from  genuine  affection :  for  Isola, 
deep  down  in  her  heart,  knew  that  her  aunt  did 
not  really  love  her.  And  with  all  this — far 
above  it  all — the  longing  to  satisfy  him,  to  show 
him  that  he  had  been  right  when  he  said  that 
she  had  a  great  talent. 

She  took  up  the  manuscript  again. 

Her  father's  portrait  lay  on  the  couch  by  her 
side,  and  close  by  it  the  white  roses  she  had 
taken  from  the  silver  vase. 

From  time  to  time  she  glanced  questioningly 
at  the  face  she  adored.  And  it  seemed  to  her 
that  the  splendid,  firm  mouth  smiled. 

She  raised  the  picture  and  kissed  it. 

"Daddy  darling,  I  must  succeed,  /  must!" 

The  mysterious  smile  seemed  to  deepen.  A 
glow  of  triumph  flashed  into  the  girl's  face. 
Bending  over  the  book  she  began  to  study  its 
pages. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THERE  are  women  in  the  grand  monde 
whose  very  names  suggest  luxury  and  ec- 
lectic extravagance.  Princess  Borizoff  was  one 
of  these. 

She  was  immensely  rich.  All  her  people  had 
been  powerful.  Her  husband,  long  dead,  had 
been  related  to  the  royal  family  of  Russia. 
From  the  moment  when,  a  child  of  six,  she  had 
been  permitted  to  stand  by  her  beautiful 
mother's  knee  on  reception  days  and  to  hear  the 
compliments  of  ambassadors  and  princes,  she 
had  been  environed  by  a  ceaseless,  ever-chang- 
ing murmur  of  adulation. 

Beautiful,  wealthy,  imperious,  absolutely  free, 
it  was  not  surprising  that  she  regarded  the  world 
as  a  tireless  slave.  And  the  world — her  world 
at  any  rate — seemed  quite  content  with  its 
humble  position. 

The  famous  Russian  beauty  was  no  longer 
young,  but  no  human  being  would  have  dared 
to  mention  the  detestable  words  "I'age  incertain" 
in  connection  with  her  name.  Her  age  was 
chronicled  in  the  Almanach  de  Gotha  for  all  the 
world  to  read — she  was  fifty-five. 

There  were  silver  threads  running  through 
67 


68  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

her  splendid  dark  hair.  Directly  in  front,  fall- 
ing lightly  over  her  broad  white  forehead,  there 
was  a  pure  white  lock.  That  curious  white  curl 
had  been  handed  down  from  several  generations 
of  ancestors ;  it  was  amazingly  attractive. 

Tall,  slender,  supremely  graceful,  the  Prin- 
cess was  an  autocratic  sovereign  in  the  world  of 
fashion.  Her  taste  was  exquisite  as  it  was  ex- 
travagant. She  was  at  once  the  idol  and  the 
despair  of  the  famous  couturieres  of  Paris,  for 
it  was  her  habit  to  issue  commands  instead  of 
accepting  advice,  or  even  suggestions.  She  had 
the  power  to  make  or  mar  a  new  fashion,  and 
she  never  permitted  her  fournisseurs  to  forget 
that  fact. 

In  various  countries,  in  the  choicest  corners  of 
many  European  capitals,  there  were  mansions 
and  villas  which  bore  the  charmed  name  of 
Borizoff.  The  Princess  detested  the  modern 
mania  for  living  in  big  hotels.  The  idea  of 
occupying  rooms  which  had  recently  been  occu- 
pied by  persons  unknown  to  her  seemed  peculiar- 
ly distasteful.  She  visited  her  intimate  friends 
— sometimes.  She  was  ready  to  welcome  them 
to  her  house — always. 

Years  before,  when  she  had  been  in  the  hey- 
day of  life,  she  had  passed  a  good  deal  of  time, 
frequently  whole  winters,  at  the  Villa  Borizoff 
in  Rome.  It  was  a  house  which  had  specially 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  69 

pleased  her,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  she 
considered  the  great  reception-rooms  too  gor- 
geous, and  the  baths,  exact  replicas  of  those  once 
owned  by  Petronius  Arbiter,  too  pretentious. 

Nevertheless,  she  had  loved  Rome  in  those 
days. 

But  twenty-two,  nearly  twenty-three,  years 
had  passed  since  her  last  visit  to  the  Eter- 
nal City.  Her  acquaintances  said  she  was  ca- 
pricious r  in  that  as  in  all  other  things.  One  or 
two  persons  suspected,  vaguely,  that  a  strong 
reason  lay  behind  the  orders  which  kept  the 
Villa  Borizoff  always  in  perfect  readiness  to  re- 
ceive its  mistress  and — always  empty. 

Clio  Underwood,  a  school  friend  of  the  Prin- 
cess, suspected. 

One  man,  who  had  willingly  given  the  love  of 
his  life  to  a  woman  who  had  nothing  to  give  in 
return  except  cold  friendship,  knew. 

Boris  de  Romanoff  still  cherished  a  letter 
which  had  been  written  to  him  in  the  Villa  Bor- 
izoff, years  before.  It  had  caused  him  exquisite 
torture.  It  contained  a  confession  of  love — love 
for  a  man  whom  he  had  never  seen. 

Those  frank  words  of  love,  written  about 
another  man,  had  frozen  the  blood  in  his  veins, 
and  yet  it  was  very  precious — very  wonderful, 
that  old  letter.  It  was  a  confession  of  failure 
from  the  proudest  of  women.  For  the  love  she 


70  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

had  felt  for  that  unknown,  thrice-blessed  man 
had  not  been  returned. 

"Tout  le  monde  est  bete  une  fois  ?"  Gabrielle 
Borizoff  had  written  those  words  at  the  end  of 
her  confession. 

"Une  fois?"  In  the  years  that  followed  how 
many  times  had  Boris  de  Romanoff  tortured 
himself  by  repeating  those  two  little  words? 

His  sovereign-lady  had  been  weak,  perhaps 
foolish,  once! 

Could  it  be  that  the  burning  hand  of  Love 

would  touch  her — never  again? 

***** 

The  Hotel  Borizoff  in  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de 
Boulogne  was  a  long,  rather  low,  building.  It 
stood  in  the  midst  of  beautiful  gardens.  At 
either  end  of  the  house  there  was  an  open  pass- 
age surrounded  by  pillars,  in  loggia  fashion. 
Though  the  grounds  were  not  really  extensive 
they  were  so  cleverly  laid  out  that  they  gave  an 
impression  of  space.  Massive  trees  sheltered  the 
house  at  the  right  side.  High  railings,  covered 
with  ivy,  hid  it  from  the  road. 

It  lay  almost  directly  in  the  shadow  of  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe,  but  the  noise  of  carriages,  cease- 
lessly sweeping  up  and  down  the  Avenue  du  Bois, 
hardly  reached  the  reception-rooms,  which  were 
situated  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

These  rooms  were  very  spacious.    The  walls 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  71 

were  hung  with  lovely  old  tapestries.  In 
the  larger  salon  there  was  a  deep  frieze  of  white 
marble,  delicately  carved.  The  pale  gold  wood- 
work and  rose  Dubarry  brocade  of  Louis  XVI. 
furniture  harmonized  well  with  polished  ebony 
floors.  In  unexpected  corners,  cleverly  formed 
by  priceless  screens,  crimson  azaleas  supplied  a 
blaze  of  vivid  color.  Long  French  windows 
opened  on  a  broad  terrace,  where  pale  roses 
climbed  over  stone  balustrades  and  where  the 
fantastic  shadows  cast  by  giant  palms  gave  a 
momentary  impression  of  Eastern  sunshine. 

It  was  a  house  specially  suitable  for  cere- 
monious receptions :  dinners  to  royal  personages 
who  found  Paris  the  junction  of  the  civilized 
world. 

It  was  very  magnificent.  Nevertheless — and 
this  was  specially  true  of  the  Princess's  favorite 
rooms — there  was  an  air  of  comfort  which  al- 
most expressed  "homeyness!" 

It  was  a  delicious  afternoon,  late  in  April. 
Even  in  Paris  there  was  real  sunshine.  The 
house  was  still  carefully  heated,  but  the  breezes 
that  floated  in  through  open  windows  were  only 
faintly  chill.  A  breath  of  summer  seemed  to 
soften  the  air. 

Princess  Borizoff  was  sitting  in  the  smaller  of 
the  suite  of  salons.  It  was  her  "day."  Already, 


72  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

though  it  was  still  early,  several  intimate  friends 
surrounded  her. 

She  looked  lovely  as  she  leaned  back  against 
the  pale  rose  cushions  of  her  chair  and  let  her 
great  dark  eyes  wander  out  into  the  gardens.  A 
long  rope  of  pearls  lay  against  her  throat  and 
fell,  in  milk-white  drops,  on  her  folded  hands. 
Her  gown  was  an  apotheosis  of  Mechlin  lace  and 
silver  embroideries.  At  her  breast  there  was  a 
cluster  of  roses. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  in  the  room. 
It  was  a  meeting  of  intimate  friends  who  knew 
that  they  were  free  from  conventional  restraints. 

Standing  by  one  of  the  open  windows  was  a 
tall,  singularly  handsome  man.  He  also  was 
looking  out  over  the  terraces  and  his  finely-cut 
profile  was  thrown  into  relief  against  a  branch  of 
climbing  roses.  He  was  not  young,  probably 
fifty-eight  or  even  sixty.  His  thick  hair,  cut 
close  to  his  head,  was  silver-gray.  His  heavy 
moustache  was  almost  white.  Physically  he  was 
a  splendid  specimen  of  his  sex,  broad  of  shoulder 
and  long  of  limb.  It  had  been  said  of  Comte 
Boris  de  Romanoff  that  he  had,  naturally,  the 
"royal  manner."  Certainly  he  possessed  the 
mysterious  quality  known  as  "distinction." 

He  leaned  his  head  against  the  frame  of  the 
window  and  watched  an  adventurous  butterfly, 
born  out  of  season,  flitting  here  and  there 


WHAT  IS  LOVE1?  73 

amongst  the  flowers.  Then  he  turned  and  let 
his  dreamy  eyes  rest  on  the  face  of  the  woman  he 
had  so  long  adored.  She  was  wonderful,  match- 
less. 

He  found  himself  wondering  what  she  could 
be  thinking  of  as  she  sat  there,  motionless.  She 
was  one  of  those  women  who  make  their  finest 
effects  by  silences,  but  he  knew  that  "effect,"  in 
the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  was  unknown  to 
her. 

She  was  lost  in  thought.  In  an  instant  a  host 
of  jealous  fancies  crowded  into  his  brain.  Was 
she  thinking  of  the  past?  Was  she,  at  that  mo- 
ment, thinking  of  the  only  man  who  had  ever 
found  the  secret  path  which  led  to  her  heart? 

With  Boris  de  Romanoff  the  memory  of  the 
painter,  Miles  Dering,  was  an  obsession.  Night 
and  day  it  haunted  him.  And  the  passage  of 
years  brought  no  relief. 

Unconsciously  he  clenched  his  hands.  At  that 
moment  a  woman's  voice  broke  the  silence. 

"He's  immensely  clever,  of  course,  but  I  al- 
ways feel  I  want  to  avoid  him." 

"Vous  avez  des  apergns  tres  fins!" 

The  Princess  smiled  as  she  spoke.  She  turned 
and  looked  at  the  pretty  woman  who  had  been 
her  life-long  friend.  Clio  Underwood  made  a 
little  grimace. 


74  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

"  'Des  apergusf  Perhaps!  He  simply 
doesn't  appeal  to  me  and  Robin  detests  him." 

The  smile  on  Princess  Borizoff's  face  deep- 
ened. She  suppressed  it  with  deliberate  inten- 
tion. 

"Where  is  he — that  wonderful  boy  of  yours? 
I  told  him  to  come  here  this  afternoon." 

"He's  coming.  We  met  Madame  Constantine 
at  the  Rond  Point  half  an  hour  ago  and  she  in- 
sisted on  carrying  him  off  to  choose  hats.  She 
says  Robin's  taste  is  'singularly  poetic,'  if  you 
know  what  that  means — I  don't." 

"My  dear  Clio,  it's  simply  a  Constantine-like 
method  of  saying  that  your  son  is  a  joli  garqon! 
She  will  make  an  effective  entry  in  a  moment  or 
two,  holding  him  by  the  hand." 

Clio  Underwood  stretched  out  her  small  feet 
and  contemplated  the  toes  of  her  bronze  shoes. 

She  was  a  very  pretty  woman,  with  soft  masses 
of  nut-brown  hair  framing  her  face  and  a  pair  of 
remarkably  effective  eyes :  golden-brown  in  color 
and  sufficiently  large.  She  was  one  of  those 
fortunate  women  who  never  seem  to  lose  their 
hold  upon  youth.  There  was  nothing  artificial 
about  her,  no  "make-up"  other  than  the  neces- 
sary dust  of  face-powder.  She  did  not  try  to 
dress  youthfully,  but  still — she  suggested  youth. 

She  was  a  widow.  She  had  been  a  widow 
when — twenty-two  years  before — she  had  mar- 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  75 

ried  James  Underwood,  an  American  whose 
claims  to  consideration  from  his  country  were 
based  on  foundations  other  than  mere  wealth, 
though  he  had  been  a  rich  man.  She  had  been 
exceedingly,  almost  perfectly,  happy  in  her  sec- 
ond marriage,  so  happy  that  even  now,  ten  years 
after  the  death  of  the  man  who  had  worshipped 
her,  she  could  not  bear  to  mention  his  name.  She 
was  still  happy,  for  her  boy  was  the  most  deli- 
cious thing  in  the  world,  and  she  was  as  free 
from  care  as  it  had  been  possible  for  James  Un- 
derwood to  make  her,  but — there  was  an  empty 
chamber  in  her  heart.  There  were  moments  in 
her  life — many  of  them — when  she  knew  she 
would  give  up  everything  she  possessed,  except 
Robin,  to  hear  her  husband's  deep,  vibrating 
voice  again ;  to  feel  the  touch  of  the  strong  arms 
which  had  held  her  close  until  the  fingers  of 
death  unloosed  them,  relentlessly. 

Boris  de  Romanoff  left  the  window  and  pulled 
forward  a  chair. 

"What  has  poor  de  Vesian  done  to  you,  chere 
Madame?  He  is  such  a  favorite  with  your  sex! 
So  much  so  that  here  in  Paris  they  speak  of  him 
as  'la  coqueluche  des  femmes'!" 

Clio  drew  down  her  soft  red  lips. 

"I  know.  That's  just  it.  All  the  women 
fawn  on  him — it's  positively  disgusting." 

"He's  very  clever." 


76  WHAT  IS  LOVE"? 

The  Princess  spoke  with  conviction.  Boris  de 
Romanoff  looked  at  her  deprecatingly. 

"Surely  something  more  than  that?" 

"You  mean  that  he  has  genius?" 

He  nodded  hesitatingly.  The  Princess  smiled. 
Her  splendid  eyes  wandered  to  a  great  jar  of 
Chinese  dragon  china  which  was  filled  with 
branches  of  white  lilac.  The  jar  stood  on  a  low 
pillar  of  carved  ebony  and  the  scheme  of  sub- 
dued color  gave  her  pleasure.  Then  she  said: 

"Genius?  I  wonder  what  it  really  is?  An 
exotic  blossom  of  Ego-mania — according  to  the 
gospel  of  Nordau.  Or  was  Emile  de  Saint 
Auban  right  when  he  said  of  our  men  of  genius : 
'They  are  the  expression  of  an  epoch.  They  em- 
body a  series  of  dreams  and  instincts  which  blos- 
som forth  in  their  energy.  They  represent  the 
finest  rose  flowering  on  the  top  of  the  rose-tree, 
through  which  the  tree  salutes  the  activities  of 
the  sap?'" 

Boris  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly.  Clio 
laughed. 

"I  can't  imagine  the  sap  of  a  healthy  rose-tree 
thanking  Monsieur  de  Vesian  for  his  salute !  In 
my  opinion  he  and  his  friend  Gaston  Lery  are 
simply  diabolically  clever  and  diabolically  de- 
generate. They're  the  fashion,  of  course;  at 
least  they're  the  fashion  in  Paris — but  how  long 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  77 

does  a  fashion  last?  Genius,  the  genuine  article, 
was  never  fashionable." 

"Gaston  Lery  is  more  than  merely  clever.  He 
has  subtle  intuitions." 

Again  the  Princess  spoke  with  conviction. 
Clio's  lip  curled. 

"He  imagines  he  has  made  an  exhaustive 
study  of  women,  but  I  don't  at  all  agree  with 
him.  He  reminds  me  of  that  wonderful  picture 
of  the  man  with  the  muck-rake." 

Boris  clapped  his  hands  softly. 

"Bravo !  Bravo !  Mrs.  Underwood,  you're 
deliciously  refreshing!" 

"Well — isn't  it  true?  Doesn't  he  spend  his 
time  raking  about  in  the  dust  of  our  lowest  im- 
pulses and  emotions?  He  may  know  a  good 
deal  about  one  side  of  the  average  woman's 
character,  but  isn't  there  another  and  vastly 
different  side?  And  of  what  value  are  the  de- 
ductions of  a  one-sided  student?  You  might  as 
well  insist  that  a  man  who  had  known  negroes 
all  his  life,  and  negroes  only,  had  the  right  to 
insist  that  all  the  world  was  imbued  with  negro 
instincts." 

Both  her  listeners  laughed  at  her  excitement. 
The  Princess  leaned  forward  and  shook  a  warn- 
ing finger. 

"You  must  find  some  other  simile.    The  color- 


78  WHAT  IS  LOVE1? 

line  is  no  longer  the  mode.  You  must  forget 
that  your  husband  was  a  Southerner." 

Before  Clio  could  reply  Boris  broke  in. 

"Paris  is  quite  excited  about  this  new  play  of 
Lery's  that's  coming  out  at  the  Theatre  Gerome. 
At  the  clubs  they  are  whispering  great  things 
about  the  girl  who  is  to  represent  the  'Jeune  fille 
de  Demain'  " 

He  spoke  with  intention,  urged  on  by  an 
insane  desire  to  know  how  the  Princess  regarded 
the  situation.  He  had  never  met  Isola  Bering, 
but  he  knew  that  she  was  his  daughter. 

Gabrielle  Borizoff  leaned  back  carelessly.  Her 
eyes  rested  on  Mrs.  Underwood's  face. 

"You  have  met  Miss  Bering,  n'est-ce  pas?  Is 
she  really  so  very  pretty  ?  Her  mother  had  the 
reputation  of  being  a  great  beauty." 

"Yes.     She's  lovely." 

"And  clever?" 

Clio  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Who  can  tell?  I  suppose  she  must  be  more 
than  usually  intelligent  or  Lucienne  Gerome 
wouldn't  have  taken  her  up." 

"It  seems  rather  a  curious  idea — the  French 
stage  for  a  young  girl — especially  an  English 
girl — of  good  position !  Certainly  it's  unusual. 
But  then  all  that  will  make  a  good  advertise- 
ment. No  doubt  Gerome's  astute  manager  rec- 
ognized that." 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  79 

A  faint  flush  of  annoyance  rose  to  Clio's  face. 
She  took  a  cigarette  from  a  box  on  the  table  and 
looked  at  her  hostess. 

"Is  it  permissible — on  your  day?"  She  dain- 
tily leaned  forward  so  that  the  match  which  had 
been  struck  by  Boris  de  Romanoff  might  reach 
the  fragile  paper.  "Yes — it's  unusual,  but  the 
girl  has  made  up  her  mind  to  become  an  actress 
on  the  French  stage — so  her  aunt  told  me.  Poor 
little  Miss  Dering  was  evidently  very  distressed 
about  it,  but  que  voulez  vous?  The  girl  was  de- 
termined!" She  threw  back  her  head  and  in- 
haled the  smoke  impatiently.  Then  she  turned 
sharply  and  looked  at  the  Princess.  "But  surely 
you've  seen  her  ?  She  has  played  already  in  one 
or  two  small  parts — with  Gerome!" 

"I  rarely  go  to  the  Theatre  Gerome.  La 
Belle  Lucienne's  day  is  over — she  is  beginning 
to  exaggerate  all  her  own  points.  She  has  even 
managed  to  force  too  much  honey  into  her  fa- 
mous voice!  She  ought  to  retire." 

"I  suppose  she  must  be ?" 

The  Princess  laughed  maliciously. 

"My  dear  Clio — what  an  eloquent  pause!  I 
didn't  think  you  were  such  a  spiteful  little  pussy- 
cat !  Poor  Gerome.  It's  hard  on  her,  of  course, 
but  even  a  famous  actress  cannot  remain  youth- 
ful forever!  Oh — if  only  these  poor  dear 
women  would  introduce  a  little  common-sense 


8o  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

into  their  daily  life !  If  only  they  would  realize 
that  for  an  attractive  woman  there  are  many 
arenas  in  which  triumphs  may  be  enjoyed,  but 
different  arenas.  If  only  one  could  induce 
women  to  glide  along  before  it  becomes  neces- 
sary for  some  one  to  give  the  little  push  which 
is  so  hurtful  to  vanity  I" 

She  laughed  again,  but  this  time  there  was 
malice  in  the  silvery  ripple. 

"The  very  last  time  I  saw  Gerome  on  the 
stage  she  was  playing  Juliet — at  a  benefit  mati- 
nee !  And  Guy  de  Vesian  was  in  one  of  the  stage 
boxes!" 

"She  played  well?" 

"Probably.  She's  far  too  experienced  to  play 
badly,  but  I  hardly  looked  at  her — I  was  look- 
ing at  de  Vesian.  His  face,  when  she  leaned  over 
the  balcony,  under  that  glare  of  artificial  moon- 
light  ?" 

"He  looked  disgusted?" 

"Oh,  no !  Only  intensely  sorry.  I  think 
he  would  have  given  anything  he  possessed  at 
that  moment  for  the  power  to  cloud  over  that 
glare  with  a  rosy  veil." 

"You  think  our  ultra-modern  poet  is  human 
— after  all?  You  think  he  was  really  sorry  to 
see  that  Gerome  is  getting  old?" 

Boris  smiled  as  he  spoke.  The  Princess  was 
also  smiling. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE"?  81 

"I  think — I  am  sure,  that  he  was  very  sorry 
for  himself!  They  have  been  close  friends,  of 
course,  and  all  the  world  knows  that  she  is  madly 
in  love  with  him — still.  He  was  intensely  sorry 
for  his  own  sorrow — if  you  can  follow  that  in- 
tricate emotion?" 

Before  Boris  could  reply  the  joyous  barking  of 
a  small  dog  made  itself  heard  in  one  of  the  outer 
salons.  A  second  later  a  tall  boy  came  quickly 
into  the  room,  accompanied  by  a  little  black- 
masked  Pekingese  who  never  ceased  to  bark  his 
welcome.  Robin  Underwood  crossed  the  room 
and  lifted  Princess  Borizoff's  hand  to  his  lips. 
He  was  almost  exaggeratedly  English  in  most 
respects,  but  he  had  nice  little  ways !  Tall,  slight, 
broad  of  shoulder,  and  straight  as  an  arrow — 
he  was  a  son  any  woman  might  have  been  proud 
to  own.  And  his  mother's  pride  was  reflected 
in  her  face :  it  was  beaming. 

"Auntie — do  you  want  to  buy  hats?  If  you 
do  I'll  go  with  you  and  choose  'em.  I'm  an 
expert !  Madame  Constantine  says  my  gout  is 
tres  fin,  and  that  all  my  ideas  are  extremely 
nouveau  jeu!  I've  had  the  loveliest  time.  All 
the  pretty  mannequin  girls  kept  trying  on  hats 
and  marching  about,  and  Madame  Constantine 
bought  six — two  of  'em  just  like  baby's  bon- 
nets!" 

The  Princess  laughed  gaily.     Robin  was  an 


82  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

established  favorite.  She  was  not  his  aunt — 
indeed,  she  was  not  related  to  him  in  any  way, 
but  he  and  she  had  arrived  at  the  pet-name 
"Auntie"  after  a  heated  discussion  in  which  the 
boy  had  declined  to  make  use  of  her  title  and 
had  spewed  "Madame"  fom  his  lips.  "I'll  call 
you  'M'am'  if  you  like — like  the  Queen,  but 
MADAME — never!  It's  a  kind  of  shop-walker 
word,  or  the  sort  of  thing  you'd  say  to  a  fat 
lady  who  was  standing,  both-feet-at-the-same- 
time,  on  your  mother's  feet  in  the  stalls,  between 
the  acts,  but  to  a  lovely  person  like  you — never!" 
And  of  course  he  had  had  his  way.  The  Prin- 
cess loved  to  hear  him  say  "Auntie"  with  that 
delicious  little  suspicion  of  a  lisp  which  refused 
to  be  shaken  off.  The  boy  was  not  afraid  of  her, 
and  in  this  connection  he  had  few  companions. 

She  rose  and  placed  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"We  will  go  into  the  next  room.  It  must  be 
tea-time." 

With  a  familiar  gesture  she  put  up  her  hand 
and  touched  the  Malmaison  carnation  in  his 
button-hole. 

"What  a  dandy  you  are,  Robby?  I  thought 
the  Beau  Brummel  spirit  had  died  out  in  Eng- 
land." 

He  squeezed  her  hand  against  his  side  and 
looked  down — his  dark  blue  eyes'  dancing  with 
amusement. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  83 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Paris  sets  the  fashions  for 
women's  things,  but  ive — over  the  water — we 
Englishmen  set  the  fashions  for  Europe,  Asia, 
Africa,  and  America  so  far  as  men's  clothes  are 
concerned.  We  know  what's  what,  I  can  tell 
you  !"  She  laughed  outright.  Stretching  up  her 
arm  she  ran  her  white  fingers  through  his  crisp 
hair. 

"Oh — I  say — Auntie!  And  Madame  Con- 
stantine'll  be  here  in  a  minute.  Oh — that's 
too  bad.  You  deserve  to  be  punished!" 

He  bent  over  threateningly.  She  looked  up, 
and  a  second  later  he  kissed  her  softly  on  the 
cheek. 

She  was  still  scolding  him  as  they  passed,  arm 
in  arm,  into  the  great  reception-rooms. 

Clio  Underwood  stood  still.  Her  face  was 
wreathed  in  smiles.  Boris  de  Romanoff  sighed 
impatiently. 

"He  is  a  young  man  of  courage,  your  tall 
son.  I  must  say  he  makes  the  most  of  his  op- 
portunities." 

Clio  nodded. 

"He  does  what  he  likes  with  every  one.  I 
don't  know  how  he  manages  it,  but  no  one  seems 
able  to  resist  him.  I  have  given  up  making  any 
effort  in  that  direction." 

"He's  a  splendid  young  fellow,  and  he  must 
be  a  delightful  companion.  Don't  you  rather 


84  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

dread  the  moment  when  the  small  boy  with  the 
fatal  arrows  will  surely  single  him  out?" 

Mrs.  Underwood  smiled.  But  the  smile 
quickly  faded  from  her  lips.  It  had  never 
reached  her  eyes. 

A  moment  later  they  followed  their  hostess 
into  the  larger  room. 


CHAPTER  V 

1  DON'T  agree  with  you.  Of  course  you  are 
an  incomparable  artist,  but  at  the  same  time 
you  are  liable  to  make  mistakes ;  all  artists,  even 
the  greatest,  are  liable  to  make  mistakes." 

Lucienne  Gerome  smiled  rather  patronizingly 
as  she  spoke.  She  was  looking  unusually  mag- 
nificent in  a  peignoir  of  pale  rose  satin  embroid- 
ered with  gold  threads.  It  was  a  superb  gar- 
ment, the  gift  of  a  famous  Indian  Prince.  At 
her  throat  there  was  a  foam  of  fine  lace.  Her 
hands  were  covered  with  jewels.  A  sapphire 
pendant  hung  low  from  a  diamond  chain. 

Madame  Cheret  looked  at  her.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  was  silent. 

They  made  a  striking  contrast — the  two 
famous  "artistes,"  for  Madame  Cheret  was  as 
well  known  in  Paris,  and  all  over  Europe,  as  was 
La  Belle  Gerome  herself. 

She  was  a  great  dressmaker,  so  great  that  it 
was  sufficient  to  say  "Cheret"  and  all  the  world 
understood. 

She    was  autocratic.     Her   word  had  to   be 

accepted    as  law,  or — a    polite  attendant    was 

ready  to  indicate  the  door  of  her  private  atelier. 

There  was  only  one  woman  in  the  world  from 

85 


86  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

whom  she  accepted  suggestions — which  some- 
times closely  resembled  commands — and  that 
one  woman  was  Princess  Borizoff.  The  idea  of 
accepting  suggestions  from  an  actress  caused  her 
so  much  inward  amusement  that  she  remained 
silent  until  her  delicate  features  were  entirely 
under  control. 

Curiosity,  mingled  with  a  feeling  of  kindli- 
ness— for  she  and  Lucienne  Gerome  had  known 
each  other  a  good  many  years — had  induced 
Magda  Cheret  to  break  one  of  her  hard-and-fast 
rules.  She  had  called  upon  a  client,  instead  of 
making  an  appointment  for  that  client  to  visit 
her  studio. 

She  had  not  seen  the  actress  at  close  quarters 
since  her  return  from  the  States,  and  she  wished 
to  find  out  for  herself  whether  certain  vague 
whispers  had  a  foundation  of  fact.  It  had  been 
said,  rather  insistently,  that  Madame  Gerome 
was  beginning  to  "break  up,"  that  the  famous 
ligne  was  no  longer  quite  graceful,  that  the  most 
skilled  masseuses  found  it  impossible  to  preserve 
the  once-delicate  outline  of  chin  and  throat.  On 
dit  had  been  very  busy. 

Madame  Cheret  was  accustomed  to  the  cruel- 
ties and  eccentricities  of  gossip,  but — she  was 
curious. 

They  made  a  strong  contrast — the  two  fa- 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  87 

mous  women:  Magda  Cheret  supremely  self- 
possessed,  calm,  dignified.  She  was  exquisitely 
dressed,  but  so  quietly  that  ninety-nine  in  a  hun- 
dred would  probably  have  passed  her  without 
comment.  The  hundredth  person,  if  unusually 
eclectic,  would  have  noted  the  fact  that  the  lace 
on  the  jabot  which  framed  the  firm  chin  was  old 
Valenciennes  and  of  great  value.  That  the  sin- 
gle row  of  pearls  which  lay  against  the  white 
throat  were  perfectly  matched  and  of  unusual 
size.  That  in  every  smallest  detail  the  simple 
walking  costume  was  a  work  of  art:  dark  blue 
serge,  plain  in  outline  to  the  point  of  severity; 
but  the  buttons  on  the  coat  had  been  made  to 
order  in  Imari,  from  an  authentic  design  of  the 
great  Tokuzayemon,  and  so  had  the  parasol 
handle,  which  matched  them.  The  world-famous 
dressmaker  was  a  thoroughly  successful  woman 
in  every  walk  of  life.  She  was  rich,  and  she  was 
contented.  Her  chateau  in  the  environs  of  Fon- 
tainebleau  was  perfectly  appointed.  Her  villa  at 
Mentone  was  the  envy  of  English  visitors,  who 
marvelled  at  its  sunny  terraces  and  luxuriant 
rose-gardens.  She  was  the  owner  of  a  beautiful 
steam-yacht.  Her  horses  and  carriages  were  be- 
yond reproach.  Even  her  husband  and  her 
children  were  well  ordered  and  the  best  of  their 
kind.  Monsieur  Andre  Berthold — for  "Cheret" 
was  a  nom  de  guerre — adored  his  wife.  He  was 


88  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

a  painter  of  considerable  talent  and  a  designer 
of  genius,  but  he  never  for  a  moment  attempted 
to  force  his  personality  into  prominence.  He 
was  thoroughly  content  with  his  position  as 
Monsieur  Cheret. 

Lucienne  Gerome  looked  impatient. 

"You  are  offended,  chere  amief  You  do  not 
like  to  be  told  that  you  might,  possibly,  make  a 
mistake?" 

Madame  Cheret  smiled. 

"I  am  not  offended.     I  am  thinking." 

"You  agree  with  me?  You  see  that  a  Jose- 
phine waist-line  would  suit  me — would  show  off 
my  bust  to  advantage?" 

"I  do  not  think  so.  When  we  speak  of  the 
'Josephine  waist-line'  we  are  thinking  of  the 
portraits  of  the  Empress  when  she  was  a  young 
woman." 

"You  mean—" 

Lucienne  leaned  forward  and  stared  insolently 
at  her  visitor.  She  had  grown  suddenly  white. 
Magda  Cheret  noticed  a  faint  line  running  from 
the  corner  of  the  mouth  to  the  chin. 

"You  wish  me  to  throw  down  my  cards? 
Well!  The  ligne  suitable  for  a  woman  of 
twenty  is  not,  cannot  be,  the  best  ligne  for  a 
woman  of — forty-eight." 

The    words    were    spoken    quietly,    without 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  89 

emotion.  But  they  burnt  their  way  into  Lucienne 
Gerome's  soul.  She  trembled  with  rage.  She 
stood  up. 

"I  did  not  ask  you  to  come  here  to  insult  me ! 
You  are  offended  because  I  did  not  like  the  last 
things  you  made  for  me.  You  have  taken  a  very 
small,  mean  way  of  revenging  yourself." 

Madame  Cheret  also  rose.  With  a  gesture  of 
complete  indifference  she  stretched  out  her  hand 
and  took  her  silver-mounted  sack  from  the  table. 

"I  am  not  offended.  And  I  have  no  desire 
to  insult  you.  You  said  you  wished  for  the 
truth " 

"The  truth?    What  truth?" 

The  great  dressmaker  remained  silent.  Lu- 
cienne reached  forward  and  caught  her  hand, 
violently. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'the  truth'?  You 
must  tell  me — you  shall  tell  me " 

Madame  Cheret,  quietly  loosening  the  detain- 
ing fingers,  replied: 

"My  dear  friend — a  very  simple  thing,  this 
'truth' !  There  comes  a  moment  in  each  woman's 
life  when  it  is  necessary  for  her  to  adapt  herself 
to  altered  circumstances.  Our  bodies,  even  the 
most  beautiful,  are  not  changeless.  The  ligne  of 
to-day  ought  not  to  be  the  ligne  of  to-morrow — 
that  is  all." 

"You  mean •-"    The  actress  ran  forward 


90  WHAT  IS  LOVE  « 

and  stared  into  one  of  the  long  mirrors  which 
lined  the  walls.  There  was  a  look  of  fury  on  her 
quivering  face.  In  her  eyes  there  was  hatred. 
"It  is  a  lie!  a  base,  cowardly  lie!  You  are 
running  Gaby  de  Lancy — I  know  it — I  have 
seen  her  photographs — dozens  of  them — in  your 
dresses!  You  have  been  paid  to  make  her  the 
fashion,  and  now  you  want  to  get  me  out  of  the 
way — you  want  to  persuade  me  that  I  am  no 
longer  young — that  the  moment  has  come  when 
I  must  change  my  ligne!  Oh,  oh — it's  shameful ! 
Disgusting!  Unworthy — utterly  unworthy!" 

She  had  worked  herself  up  into  a  fury  of  ex- 
citement. Her  face  was  white.  Her  dark  eyes 
seemed  filled  with  flame.  Her  wonderful  voice 
reverberated  round  the  room. 

She  looked  magnificent! 

But  she  looked  hard — almost  old. 

Madame  Cheret  watched  her.  The  expression 
of  half-contemptuous  kindliness  had  faded  from 
her  calm  face.  Her  glance  was  intentionally 
critical. 

"Bien!  That  is  the  end.  You  have  chosen 
to  treat  me  as  you  might  treat  your  butcher  or 
your  hairdresser.  Bien!  I  am  more  than  satis- 
fied. Nothing  remains  but  the  settlement  of  our 
little  account.  I  shall  give  myself  the  pleasure 
of  sending  it  to  you  to-morrow." 

It  was  the  self-possessed  little  bourgeoise  who 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  91 

spoke — the  woman  who  had  made  a  great  and 
perfectly  legitimate  success;  who  had  made  val- 
uable investments,  who  wrould  still  be  a  rich 
woman  if  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  establishment  closed 
its  massive  doors  on  the  morrow.  Magda 
Cheret  had  consented  to  dress  successful  actresses 
from  time  to  time,  but  she  was  imbued  with  that 
secret  contempt  for  their  calling  which  belongs, 
innately,  to  French  women  of  the  middle  classes. 
They  were  good  advertisements,  in  a  way,  but 
they  were — one  and  all — given  over  to  pose  !  She 
loathed  the  genre  "M'as  tu  vu!"  Very  quietly 
she  adjusted  her  coat  and  walked  towards  the 
door. 

"The  man  who  takes  charge  of  your  private 
lift  is  waiting,  I  presume?" 

Lucienne  made  a  gesture  of  assent. 

In  that  moment  the  blood  of  her  concierge- 
mother  flooded  her  whole  being.  She  wanted  to 
do  something  hurtful — spiteful. 

Standing  perfectly  still,  she  waved  her  hand 
to  indicate  the  door.  Madame  Cheret  opened 
it.  A  white-robed  servant  thrust  a  thin,  dark 
face  into  the  opening. 

"Take  Madame  la  couturiere  down." 

Her  voice  sounded  hoarse  and  rasping. 
Madame  Cheret  passed  out.  Before  she  en- 
tered the  lift  she  turned  and  looked  back  into  the 
gorgeous  room. 


92  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

It  was  "the  end" — indeed! 

She  had  been  dismissed  insultingly.     "Bien!" 

The  door  closed.     A  second  later  the  faint 

rumble  of  a  descending  lift  made  itself  heard. 

***** 

For  many  moments  Lucienne  Gerome  re- 
mained standing  in  the  middle  of  her  dressing- 
room,  her  body  tense,  her  lips  compressed  into  a 
thin,  vicious  line.  She  was  beside  herself  with 
fury  and  with  something  very  like  terror. 

Magda  Cheret's  eyes.  What  had  they  said? 
What  was  the  real  meaning  of  their  comprehen- 
sive glance?  She  hated,  loathed,  execrated,  the 
dressmaker,  but  she  feared  the  silent  verdict  of 
those  expressive  eyes. 

Magda  Cheret  was  spiteful — detestably  spite- 
ful, but  she  knew  everything  there  was  to  be 
known  about  her  profession. 

She  was  a  real  artist. 

Lucienne  stood  before  the  long  mirror  and 
stared  into  its  depths. 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  in  one  of  her  most 
effective  gestures.  She  threw  back  her  head  and 
silently  ran  through  some  phrases  of  one  of  her 
famous  roles. 

Her  sinuous  form  was  thrown  into  strong  re- 
lief against  the  background  of  a  splendid  Japan- 
ese silk  screen.  Her  superb  peignoir  draped  it- 
self about  her  in  exquisite  folds. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE*?  93 

Her  wonderful  fair  hair  seemed  veiled  in 
glistening  gold. 

Yes!  Yes — yes!  She  was  beautiful!  seduc- 
tive !  regal — still ! 

Unconsciously  she  spoke  the  last  word  aloud. 

And  as  she  spoke  it  something  seemed  to  hap- 
pen— in  her  brain?  in  her  heart? — some  horri- 
ble, impossible  thing! 

"Still?" 

Where  had  she  heard  that  fatal  word?  Who 
had  spoken  it  to  her — quite  recently? 

Burning  tears  suddenly  welled  up  into  her 
eyes.  She  began  to  sob  hysterically.  With  an 
inarticulate  cry  she  flung  herself  down  on  the 

low  couch. 

***** 

The  moments  passed. 

The  faithful  Cora  had  entered  softly  from  an 
inner  room ;  but  had  not  spoken. 

She  knew  she  was  not  wanted  in  such  circum- 
stances. 

From  time  to  time — and  lately  these  times  had 
approached  each  other  very  closely — her  beloved 
mistress  gave  way  to  fits  of  violent  hysterics.  To 
Cora  this  seemed  natural,  since  it  was  impossible 
for  any  one,  even  Lucienne  Gerome,  to  control 
irritated  nerves  forever.  The  old  woman  was 
not  surprised,  but  she  felt  very  sad.  Her  beau- 
tiful, splendid  mistress!  Was  it  possible  that 


94  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

anything  was  going  wrong  with  her?  Was  it 
possible  that  some  evil  was  about  to  touch  that 
charmed  life? 

Very  quietly  she  folded  and  arranged  the 
dresses  in  the  great  wardrobes  and  chests.  Then 
she  noiselessly  closed  the  door  of  the  inner 
room. 

Lucienne's  sobs  died  away.  She  lay  motion- 
less on  the  couch — her  head  buried  in  the  pile  of 
satin  cushions.  She  was  only  half  conscious. 

She  was  wandering  in  an  enchanted  country 
where  strangely  brilliant  flowers  threw  out  ener- 
vating perfumes  from  their  hidden  hearts. 

She  was  walking  through  silent  streets  where 
the  pavements  were  of  silver,  where  fantastic 
ivory  walls  inset  with  enormous  crystals  gleamed 
against  the  subtle  darkness  of  a  midsummer 
night,  where  exquisite  music  floated  towards  her 
from  unseen  balconies. 

And  he  was  by  her  side — the  man  she  so  pas- 
sionately adored. 

His  white,  cool  hands  were  framing  her  burn- 
ing face.  His  dreamy  eyes,  adoring  and  laden 
with  desire,  were  looking  down  into  the  depths 
of  hers ! 

They  were  together  in  that  enchanted  coun- 
try. They  were  alone. 

It  was  the  burning  romance  of  Romeo  and 


WHAT  IS  LOVE4?  9^ 

Juliet — the  sweet,  mad  passion  of  Adrienne 
Lecouvreur  and  Maurice  de  Saxe  ! 

She  threw  out  her  beautiful  white  arms  and 
clasped  them  round  the  yielding  cushions. 

"You  are  my  world — my  hope — yes,  and  my 
God" — Adrienne  Lecouvreur's  dying  words,  her 
last  passionate  declaration  of  love. 

With  trembling  fingers  she  drew  from  her 
breast  a  little  miniature  rimmed  in  diamonds. 
She  laid  it  by  her  on  the  pillow  and  gazed  down 
into  Guy  de  Vesian's  face. 

"You  are  my  God — my  life — my  all.  I  love 
you — I  love  you — /  love  you!" 

Her  burning  lips  were  lying  against  the  little 
oval  of  porcelain.  She  was  whispering  to  it  as 
a  woman  whispers  in  the  ear  of  her  lover  when 
they  are  alone — in  the  shadows. 

When  she  again  softly  slipped  the  miniature 
into  her  breast  her  face  had  grown  calm.  She 
looked  beautiful;  almost  youthful. 

Cora  entered,  bringing  a  glass  of  hot  milk  and 
some  finger  biscuits.  She  spoke  a  few  words, 
and  Lucienne  answered  dreamily.  The  old 
woman  looked  at  her  furtively.  Her  quick  eyes 
took  in  the  story  of  the  torn  and  crushed  laces, 
of  the  crimson  marks  which  showed  that  in  a 
moment  of  furious  excitement  the  pointed  nails 
had  been  driven  into  the  soft  yellow  palms.  She 


96  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

longed  to  offer  sympathy;  but  she  did  not  dare. 
When  she  left  the  room  Lucienne  drew  a  table 
towards  her  and  took  up  some  loose  papers. 

The  new  piece  ?  A  great  deal  depended  on  it ! 
Jules  Rivaud  was  convinced  that  it  would  have 
a  great  success  in  the  States.  And  Lucienne, 
the  most  unbusiness-like  of  women,  vaguely 
realized  that  "the  States"  meant  a  good  deal  to 
him;  and,  incidentally,  to  her. 

As  she  turned  over  the  papers  the  thought 
came  to  her  that  she  must  get  her  manager  to 
pay  Madame  Cheret's  account,  at  once.  It  would 
be  a  serious  affair,  probably  a  matter  of  many 
thousands  of  pounds,  but  it  must  be  paid,  at 
once!  She  was  glad  that  the  break  with  Magda 
Cheret  had  been  made  final.  Now  she  was  free 
to  place  herself  in  the  hands  of  Raoul  Bossan — 
the  great  Raoul  who  had  made  all  Paris  gasp  at 
his  extravagant  fetes,  his  daring  designs,  his 
autocratic  enunciations. 

Raoul  had  offered  to  dress  her.  He,  or  was 
it  his  secretary?  had  carelessly  stated  that  a  sub- 
stantial sum  of  money  would  have  to  be  de- 
posited. Probably  in  the  case  of  "Madame 
Gerome,"  who  would  naturally  require  many 
costly  toilettes,  this  sum  would  amount  to  about 
£20,000  or  £30,000.  Lucienne  had  paid  very 
little  attention  to  the  matter.  But  now  it  struck 
her  that  Rivaud  must  find  this  money  also.  So 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  97 

far  as  she  was  personally  concerned  she  never 
had  a  five-pound  note  to  spare  for  dressmakers. 
There  were  so  many  people  dependent  upon  her; 
such  endless  calls  on  her  private  purse.  All  her 
life  she  had  made  money  quickly.  All  her  life 
she  had  spent  it  even  before  it  was  made. 

As  she  looked  through  her  papers  her  eyes  fell 
on  Isola  Bering's  name.  It  was  a  private  letter 
from  Gaston  Lery.  She  took  it  up.  "So  far  as 
appearance  goes  she  is  delicious,  quite  perfect. 
But,  chere  Madame,  how  can  we  make  her  into 
a  real  Madeleine?  That  is  the  puzzle.  All  the 
necessary  material  is  there :  the  lovely  body,  the 
warm  imagination,  the  passionate  nature,  the 
longing  for  excitement,  for  luxury,  for  color! 
The  material  is  there,  but  who  is  to  mold  it  into 
the  desired  form?  It  would  be  an  entrancing 
task  for  a  lover  but — where  to  find  him?  She  is 
not  facile,  the  delicious  little  Isola.  She  longs 
to  taste  of  the  fruit  of  life,  but  she  would  refuse 
it  unless  it  were  offered  by  what  her  compatriots 
would  call  'the  right  man.'  It  is  a  problem ! 
It  is  distracting !  You,  who  are  the  wisest  as  the 
most  beautiful  of  women,  can  you  not  suggest 
something?  Or  must  we  try  to  find  another 
Madeleine?" 

There  was  much  more,  but  it  was  on  these 


98  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

lines    that    Lucienne's    thoughts    concentrated. 

Gaston  Lery  was  Guy's  intimate  friend. 

Guy  had  expressed  an  opinion  that  Isola  Der- 
ing  would  make  an  ideal  Madeleine  Delorme. 

It  had  seemed  like  a  careless  suggestion,  but 
something  in  the  musical  voice  had  made  Lu- 
cienne  determined  to  fall  in  with  the  idea.  No 
one  in  the  world  should  have  the  opportunity  of 
saying  that  she  needed  a  foil.  She  would  play 
the  part  of  a  mother,  the  mother  of  an  exquisite 
girl,  and  she  would  triumph !  She  would  con- 
centrate all  her  powers  upon  the  part.  She  would 
make  the  public  feel  that  a  great  love  is  its  own 
justification. 

Once  again  she  read  the  letter. 

What  had  he  really  meant,  Gaston  Lery? 

She  knew  him  to  be  a  man  without  any  com- 
prehension of  what  ordinary  persons  call  moral- 
ity. He  was  unscrupulous,  essentially  ruse. 

What  had  he  meant? 

With  characteristic  impatience  she  started  up 
and  paced  to  and  fro.  She  looked  like  some  wild 
animal  in  a  cage.  There  was  a  strangely  in- 
human expression  in  her  half-closed  eyes.  She 
was  thinking,  frantically. 

To  and  fro,  backwards  and  forwards,  the 
rustle  of  silken  skirts  whispered  to  the  perfumed 
air. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  99 

Lery  had  meant  something ! 

Of  that  she  became  convinced. 

What? 

There  was  a  pillared  table,  it  looked  almost 
like  an  altar,  against  the  wall  at  the  end  of  the 
room.  She  walked  towards  it  very  quickly. 
Then  she  paused.  Her  breath  came  and  went 
in  little  gasps.  On  the  table  there  was  a  large 
photograph  of  de  Vesian.  He  had  been  taken 
looking  straight  into  the  camera.  His  startling- 
ly  expressive  eyes  seemed  full  of  mischievous 
amusement.  Lucienne  stood  motionless.  Then 
she  bent  forward  and  seized  the  photograph. 
The  wild  animal  within  her  had  entered  into 
possession  of  its  rights.  It  had  been  set  free. 

Passionate,  frantic  words  burst  from  her  lips. 
She  was  as  a  woman  possessed  of  a  devil. 

"You  wished  it — why?  You  influenced  Lery 
— why — why — why  ?" 

Her  horrible  thoughts  took  shape  in  dread- 
ful words.  Her  nervous  hands  clutched  the 
massive  frame.  She  stared  into  the  depths  of 
dreamy,  malicious  eyes. 

Gaston  Lery  was  a  devil.  All  the  world  knew 
that. 

He  had  influence  with  Guy  de  Vesian.  They 
had  been  close  friends  for  many  years. 

Lery  would  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  his  own 


loo  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

mother  if  that  sacrifice  was  likely  to  further  the 
success  of  his  plays. 

His  imagination  had  seized  upon  Isola  Bering 
— it  had  singled  her  out  as  an  ideal  "Madeleine" 
— if  only  she  could  be  "molded." 

She  was  not  "facile." 

Lucienne  laughed  wildly  as  she  recalled  the 
girl's  natural  horror  of  the  dramatist  with  the 
fevered  eyes — her  vain  attempts  to  force  her- 
self to  seem  natural  and  gay  when  he  was  present. 

No!  She  would  never  be  "facile"  where 
Gaston  Lery  was  concerned.  He  knew  it.  He 
had  not  meant  that. 

She  was  still  staring  wildly  into  de  Vesian's 
pictured  eyes  when  the  door  of  the  inner  room 
opened  and  the  old  attendant  entered. 

Cora  spoke  softly.  She  asked  some  simple 
question. 

At  the  sound  of  the  familiar  voice  the  last 
remnant  of  control  vanished.  Lucienne  literally 
flung  herself  upon  the  intruder.  With  a  flood  of 
coarse  words  and  imprecations  which  would  have 
commanded  admiration  in  the  Holies  of  Paris 
she  drove  the  old  woman  back — and  back.  For 
a  single  second  Cora  thought  that  her  last  hour 
had  come.  She  uttered  a  sharp  cry  and  closed 
her  eyes  as  the  cruel  fingers  closed  in  about  her 
throat. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE4?  101 

That  helpless  cry  broke  the  spell. 

With  a  gesture  of  savage  affection  the  actress 
flung  her  arms  round  the  faithful  servant's  neck 
and  broke  into  pitiful  weeping. 

For  more  than  an  hour  she  sobbed  in  the 
shelter  of  those  circling  arms.  For  more  than 
an  hour  Cora  had  to  listen  to  broken  sentences 
— fierce  accusations — piteous  fears.  It  was  a 
scene  of  horror — that  hour  of  despair  in  the  life 
of  a  woman  who  had  been  the  idol  of  Europe. 

Poor  old  Cora. 

Her  heart  bled  for  the  mistress  she  adored — 
the  woman  who  was  in  reality  her  niece.  This 
was  her  most  cherished  secret !  Never,  to  a  living 
soul,  had  she  confided  the  fact  that  Lucienne's 
mother  had  been  her  only  sister.  The  actress 
herself  did  not  know  that  the  tie  was  one  of 
blood — though  she  knew  that  Cora  had  known 
her  pretty,  frail  mother. 

The  hours  passed.  Once  the  man  who 
guarded  the  private  lift  had  ventured,  after  hav- 
ing knocked  repeatedly,  to  open  the  door  very 
softly.  Cora  had  spoken  a  few  words  of  definite 
command  and  the  dark  face  had  disappeared. 

The  afternoon  was  drawing  on  before  the 
poor  swollen  eyelids  fell  heavily — before  sleep 
brought  with  it  oblivion. 

Very  softly  Cora  laid  the  tired  head  down 


102  WHAT  IS  LOVE*? 

amongst  the  pillows  of  the  couch.  With  ex- 
quisite tenderness  she  smoothed  the  ruffled  hair 
and  passed  a  large  powder-puff  over  the  flushed 
cheeks.  With  deft  fingers  she  arranged  the  laces 
of  the  gorgeous  peignoir  and  drew  forward  a 
large  jar  of  white  lilies. 

Lucienne  looked  beautiful ! 

One  might  almost  have  imagined  that  she  was 
on  the  stage — giving  to  the  enraptured  public 
one  of  those  wonderful  death-scenes  for  which 
she  was  famous.  With  steps  of  velvet  the  old 
woman  withdrew.  But  as  she  passed  the  table 
on  which  de  Vesian's  portrait  was  standing,  she 
stopped  abruptly  and  stared  at  it. 

There  was  impotent  fury  on  the  hard  old 
face,  undying  hatred. 

She  had  been  so  happy,  her  lovely  "Madame 
Lucienne" — until  she  had  met  him!  until  she  had 
given  of  her  best  instead  of  taking  everything 
that  was  offered. 

For  the  first  time  a  man  had  really  influenced 
the  beautiful  actress — had  obsessed  her.  What 
was  to  be  the  end? 

For  answer,  Guy  de  Vesian's  eyes  smiled  at 
her,  maliciously,  until  she  had  passed  into  the 
inner  room. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  a  brilliant  house  ! 
Tout  Paris  was  to  be  found  in  the  boxes 
and  stalls  of  the  Theatre  Gerome — poets,  critics, 
dramatists,  famous  beauties;  a  semi-royalty  or 
two;  millionaires  and  their  wives. 

A  typical  repetition  generate  of  a  fashionable 
Parisian  theater;  Princess  Borizoff  sat  in  the 
front  of  her  box  and  glanced  carelessly  round 
the  house. 

How  many,  countless,  times  she  had  assisted 
at  just  such  a  scene.  How  many  clever  plays 
she  had  seen  launched.  So  many  of  them 
doomed  to  destruction. 

And  this  much-talked-of  piece — "La  Jeune 
fille  de  Demain" — what  would  be  its  fate?  Was 
Gaston  Lery  going  to  score  still  another  tri- 
umph? Was  it  really  true  that  he  understood 
better  than  any  other  dramatist  the  hidden  sym- 
pathies of  Paris? 

She  leaned  back  and  drew  a  white  velvet  wrap 
closer  about  her  shoulders.  She  was  a  little 
bored  and  yet — she  felt  stimulated. 

There  was  electricity  in  the  air. 

Her  old  friend  Clio  Underwood  was  sitting 
beside  her,  but  it  was  on  the  eager  face  of  Clio's 
103 


104  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

son  that  the  dark,  fathomless  eyes  rested.  How 
handsome  he  was — that  boy  with  the  splendid- 
ly poised  head  and  steadfast  eyes.  How  ab- 
sorbed he  seemed  in  the  play ! 

The  story  was  unfolding  itself  in  pitiless  de- 
tail. 

The  second  act  was  half  over.  The  Jeune 
fille  de  Demain  was  on  the  stage — alone  with 
her  mother's  lover.  He  was  devouring  her  with 
amorous,  liquid  eyes.  He  was  wooing  her  with 
voice  and  with  touch;  he  was  painting  glowing 
word-pictures  of  Southern  scenes  where  exotic 
flowers  filled  the  still  air  with  enervating  per- 
fumes. 

It  was  a  passionate  love-scene,  and  the  girl, 
who  was  supposed  to  be  little  more  than  a  child, 
was  leading  him  on — yet  warding  him  off  !  She 
looked  like  an  angel.  She  was  made  to  speak 
the  words  of  a  devil.  The  fiendish  imagination 
of  Gaston  Lery  had  conceived  a  jeune  file  who 
was  at  heart  corrupt — who  was  eager  to  seize 
on  the  first  opportunity  for  putting  her  power 
over  men  to  the  test — who  was  consumed  by 
a  fierce  longing  for  excitement.  He  had  intended 
to  present  to  his  eclectic  circle  a  perfect  study  of 
a  jeune  fille  de  demaln  whose  imagination  was 
thoroughly  tainted.  He  had  forced  his  drugged 
brain  to  render  up  its  most  insidious  thoughts. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  105 

He  had  pieced  the  pitiful  story  together  with 
horrible  skill.  The  piece  was  to  be  his  chef- 
d'azume — perhaps  even  his  swan-song. 

At  the  rehearsals  he  had  alternately  raved  at, 
coaxed,  and  commanded  the  young  girl  who 
seemed  to  have  been  sent  from  heaven  to  fill  the 
part  of  Madeleine.  She  was  so  lovely!  Her 
likeness  to  Lucienne  Gerome,  heightened  by 
skilful  make-up,  was  remarkable:  her  mar- 
vellous golden  voice !  her  supple,  sinuous  move- 
ments ! 

It  was  Madeleine  Delorme  as  he  had  seen  her 
in  his  exotic  dreams,  and  from  the  first  he  had 
set  himself  the  task  of  forcing  Isola  to  realize 
the  character. 

That  morning,  at  the  final  rehearsal,  he 
believed  he  had  succeeded.  The  girl  had  amazed 
him.  She  had  amazed  every  one.  Even  Lu- 
cienne Gerome  had  been  satisfied. 

Jules  Rivaud  alone  had  realized  that  the  won- 
derful performance  was  a  tour  de  force  of  over- 
wrought nerves. 

And  Rivaud  had  remained  silent. 

Never  had  Lucienne  Gerome  played  more 
magnificently  than  on  that  night.  Never  had 
she  appeared  more  splendidly  convincing  than 
at  the  moment  when  she  threw  herself  on  her 
knees  before  her  daughter  and  sobbed  out  her 


io6  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

piteous  confession:  her  mad  love  for  Pierre 
Lassalle — her  hideous  fear  that  he  had  grown 
tired  of  her — her  passionate  hope  that  the  girl 
would  consent  to  go  away  for  a  time  so  that 
she,  the  wretched  mother,  might  have  a  chance 
of  winning  back  the  love  that  was  dearer  to  her 
than  life.  It  was  a  horrible  scene,  intensely 
human,  pitiful  in  its  merciless  revelation  of  a 
woman's  weakness. 

A  shudder  seemed  to  pass  through  the 
crowded  house  when  the  girl  laughed.  When 
she  turned  on  the  wretched  woman  and  made  her 
understand  that  she  had  always  known  why  she 
had  been  kept  at  school  so  long;  that  she  had  al- 
ways intended  to  follow  her  mother's  example 
and  to  enjoy  every  moment  of  her  life. 

It  was  a  horribly  dramatic  moment,  and  one 
seemed  to  see  the  approach  of  relentless  time  as 
the  woman  stared  into  empty  space  while  the 

curtain  slowly  descended. 

***** 

Princess  Borizoff  sat  very  still  after  the  fall  of 
the  curtain.  She  was  wandering  in  the  realms  of 
the  past. 

A  girl's  dark  eyes  had  suddenly  bridged  over 
the  gulf  of  vanished  years.  She  was  once  again 
sitting  in  her  loge  at  the  Teatro  Costanzi  in 
Rome.  A  tall,  dark  man  was  standing  by  her 
side.  She  was  smiling  up  into  his  face  rather  ma- 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  107 

liciously.  He  was  insisting  that  her  hands  were 
the  hands  of  an  "idealist!" 

So  many  years  ago — more  than  twenty! 

Miles  Bering  was  then  unmarried. 

The  beautiful  girl  who  was  to  become  the 
mother  of  that  lovely  child  who  had  just  left 
the  stage  was  then  Violet  Hilliard.  She  also 
had  been  present  on  that  memorable  night  at  the 
Teatro  Costanzi. 

For  a  second  the  Princess  closed  her  eyes  and 
conjured  up  the  vision  of  the  English  girl  whose 
eyes  had  then  questioned  her  across  the  theater. 

She  had  never  spoken  to  Dering's  wife;  never 
met  her  socially;  but  she  remembered  that 
strange,  startling  beauty. 

She  remembered  it :  and  she  had  seen  it  again 
a  moment  ago — in  the  person  of  Dering's 
daughter. 

The  likeness  was  amazing. 

Form,  color,  manner,  intimate  personal 
charm :  everything  except  the  eyes :  those  won- 
derful dark  eyes !  searching,  caressing — haunting 
in  their  expression  of  question  and  fire. 

Miles  Dering's  eyes,  as  she  had  seen  them  in 
moments  of  intimate  friendship ;  as  she  had  seen 
them  on  that  night  in  the  loggia  of  her  house  in 
Rome,  when  she  had  confessed  her  love,  when 
he  had  shown  such  exquisite  consideration — 
when  he  had  made  her  understand. 


io8  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

She  was  the  proudest  of  women,  but  she  had 
never  regretted  her  moment  of  weakness.  On 
the  contrary  she  had  tenderly  cherished  its  mem- 
ory all  through  the  passing  years.  She  had  en- 
shrined it,  as  an  intimate,  priceless  secret,  in  the 
holy  places  of  her  heart. 

The  news  of  Bering's  death  had  caused  her 
no  pain.  After  that  night  in  the  loggia,  when  he 
told  her  of  his  love  for  Violet  Hilliard,  she  had 
never  wished  to  see  him  again  in  the  flesh.  As 
a  man  he  had  passed  out  of  her  life.  As  an  ideal 
he  had  entered  into  complete  possession  of  her 
spirit. 

He  represented  all  that  might  have  been  if — 
if—? 

And  this  lovely  girl  who  had  just  given  such  a 
strange  reading  of  a  strange  role — did  she  in- 
terest her  at  all?  Did  she  wish  to  speak  to  her? 
To  look,  closely,  at  those  familiar  eyes?  Who 
could  tell? 

With  a  little  shiver  the  Princess  turned  in  her 
seat  and  glanced  at  her  old  friend  Clio  Under- 
wood, who  was  sitting  at  the  back  of  the  box. 
Clio  had  known  Dering? — had  known  him  very 
well  indeed.  What  was  she  thinking  at  that 
moment  ? 

There  was  a  sudden  movement  in  the  box. 
Some  one  came  in  with  a  considerable  amount  of 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  109 

rustle.  At  the  same  moment  some  one  uttered 
an  incoherent  word  and  passed  out — abruptly; 
that  was  Robin  Underwood. 

In  the  gleam  of  strong  light  which  rushed  in 
from  the  vestibule  the  Princess  saw  his  face.  It 
was  haggard.  For  a  single  second  the  frank  blue 
eyes  were  turned  on  her  and  she  recognized  that 
the  boy  was  suffering  intensely. 

Then  the  door  was  shut  and  she  half  rose  to 
greet  the  Comtesse  de  Vesian. 

That  malicious  old  lady  was  wearing  a  won- 
derful "creation"  in  which  yellow  satin  and  gold 
embroideries  made  a  background  for  emeralds 
which  would  have  seemed  impossibly  large  if 
they  had  not  been  historic. 

She  was  shaking  with  suppressed  laughter. 
For  a  moment  she  made  no  attempt  to  speak. 

Then  she  leaned  forward  and  laid  her  hand 
lightly  on  the  Princess'  arm. 

"Chere  Madame — was  it  not  stupendous! 
The  most  magnificent  farce  that  has  ever  been 
presented  to  Paris!  Poor  Lery.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  he  will  enter  into  the  realms  of  ob- 
livion this  very  night,  through  the  valley  of 
hashish  dreams.  He  will  never  have  the  cour- 
age to  face  the  guns  of  to-morrow's  news- 
papers!" 

"You  mean ?" 

The  Princess  was  smiling  coldly. 


no  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

"'Mean?'  But  there  is  only  one  meaning? 
That  wonderful  little  girl  has  put  to  shame  the 
most  shameless  dramatist  in  Paris !  She  has  given 
his  friends  a  chance  of  saying  that  he  is  at  heart 
a  moralist — that  his  jeune  fille  de  demain  is  a 
symbol !  She,  in  her  own  very  attractive  person, 
has  disproved  his  pet  theory  that  our  modern 
girls  drink  in  corruption  with  their  sterilized 
milk.  Tout  Paris  is  laughing  at  him !  When  I 
peeped  into  his  loge  just  now,  I  found  him  hud- 
dled up  in  a  chair  in  the  darkest  corner,  and  Guy 
was  standing  over  him  discoursing  on  the  subject 
of  the  importance  of  'form'  and  the  subtlety  of 
'substance,'  etc.,  etc!  You  know  that  line  of 
thought — the  thread  which  is  supposed  to  unite 
the  Parnassians  and  the  Diabolists  and  all  the 
other  ego-maniacs  of  our  delightfully  uncivilized 
world.  For  Guy  the  girl's  golden  voice  was 
enough.  For  our  poor  Lery  the  voice  expressed 
nothing  except  the  fact  that  its  owner  had  re- 
versed his  idea  of  the  piece.  Mile.  Dering  has 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  given  an  air  of  vir- 
ginal innocence  to  corrupt  words.  She  has  made 
her  mother's  genuine  passion  seem  ridiculous. 
Oh — it's  stupendous !  It  will  certainly  kill  Lery, 

and  as  to  Gerome "     She  suddenly  turned 

and  faced  Mrs.  Underwood.     "She  looked  old 
and  faded  to-n-ight,  for  the  first  time.     She  will 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  111 

also  find  it  hard  to  forgive  that  wonderful  girl 
who  will  never  be  much  of  an  actress." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  I  consider  Miss 
Bering  very  clever — remarkably  clever.  But 
the  piece  is  a  very  disagreeable  one.  No  nice 
girl  should  have  been  asked  to  play  in  it." 

The  Comtesse  made  a  quaint  grimace. 

"Entendu!  but  what  have  'nice'  girls,  par- 
ticularly 'nice'  English  girls,  to  do  with  the 
French  stage?  We  don't  write  for  the  jeune 
fille,  nous  autres!  Look  round,  chere  Madame. 
Take  up  your  glasses  and  look  carefully.  Is 
there  a  single  jeune  fille  in  the  house  ?  Not  one ! 
Lery  isn't  for  the  jeune  fille.  Neither  is  Gerome  1 
Neither,  for  the  matter  of  that,  is  my  son  Guy. 
It  is  an  odd  position  this:  a  young  and  really 
lovely  English  girl  playing  at  the  Theatre 
Gerome !  And  you  talk  of  'nice'  ?" 

Her  fat  shoulders  shook  and  her  reddened 
lips  curved  in  an  evil  smile. 

At  that  moment  a  strange  thing  happened  in 
the  secret  chambers  of  Princess  Borizoff' s  heart. 

A  curious,  impossible  mother-instinct  quick- 
ened. 

This  was  Bering's  daughter.  Bering's  wife 
was  forgotten. 

With  a  characteristically  imperious  gesture 
she  leaned  back  and  let  her  eyes  wander  over  her 
visitor's  remarkable  person. 


112  WHAT  IS  LOVE4? 

"You  are  a  Parisenne  of  Parisennes,  quite 
abnormally  intelligent,  but  you  overlook  the  fact 
that  nowadays  the  exclusive  world  of  Paris  is 
forced  to  take  color,  just  a  little,  from  the  world 
in  general.  Ten  years  ago  it  would  have  been 
impossible,  I  grant  you,  for  a  young  English 
girl  of  good  birth  to  succeed  on  the  French  stage, 
legitimately,  but  we  are  changing  all  that !  We 
are  becoming  a  little  more  enlightened.  We  are 
beginning  to  recognize  that  the  morals  of  the 
cabarets  are  not  necessarily  the  morals  of  well- 
conducted  theaters !  Myself,  I  should  not  have 
recommended  the  stage  as  a  profession  for  the 
daughter  of  my  old  friend,  Mr.  Miles  Bering, 
but  she  wished  to  make  the  experiment.  She 
wished  it  very  much.  She  is  being  permitted  to 
have  her  own  way,  but  I  fancy  that  we,  her 
friends,  will  be  able  to  protect  her  from  annoy- 
ance." 

She  spoke  very  quietly,  but  there  was  a  ring  in 
her  voice  that  brought  a  flood  of  color  to  Clio's 
cheeks. 

For  a  second  she  stared  in  open  amazement, 
then,  quickly,  she  looked  away. 

After  all  those  years? 

After  that  long,  insistent  silence? 

***** 

The  curtain  had  risen  on  the  last  act  before 
Robin  Underwood  returned.  Noiselessly  he 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  113 

slipped  into  his  place  behind  the  Princess.  She 
did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  his  presence. 

In  a  moment  of  strong  excitement  she  had  pro- 
claimed herself  the  "friend"  of  the  girl  who  had 
just  crossed  the  stage. 

Was  she  glad?    Or  was  she  sorry? 

She  found  it  impossible  to  say. 

In  the  darkness  Clio  slipped  her  hand  through 
Robin's  arm.  He  turned  and  looked  at  her. 
Even  in  the  gloom  of  the  darkened  theater  she 
could  see  that  his  eyes  were  fevered  and  miser- 
able. 

At  that  moment  Guy  de  Vesian  leaned  for- 
ward over  the  edge  of  his  loge.  Isola  Dering 
looked  up  suddenly.  It  seemed  as  though  she 
had  intentionally  looked  at  the  poet.  Something 
like  a  smothered  groan  broke  from  Robin's 
compressed  lips. 

Relentlessly  the  shadows  closed  in  about  the 
wretched  story.  The  broken-hearted  mother, 
maddened  by  the  knowledge  that  her  lover,  still 
a  young  man,  realizes  that  her  youth  is  gone, 
takes  poison.  And  the  girl? 

Already  tired  of  a  man  whom  she  has  never 
really  loved,  she  disappears. 

And  the  man?  After  one  horrified  glance  at 
the  dead  woman's  worn  face  he  also  goes  out. 
And  it  is  his  fixed  intention  to  search  for  the 


ii4  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

lovely  siren  who  has  taken  complete  possession 
of  his  fervid  imagination. 

In  his  loge  Gaston  Lery  was  beside  himself 
with  fury. 

"She  has  killed  it,"  he  muttered  again  and 
again.  "She  has  killed  it  with  that  accursed 
suggestion  of  redemption.  If  that  Madeleine 
ever  met  Pierre  Lassalle  again  it  would  mean 
marriage  and  a  herd  of  children  and  stifling 
respectability.  What  a  fool  I  have  been — a 
blind  fool,  about  that  wretched  girl.  Gerome 
warned  me — my  own  intelligence  warned  me, 
but  I  would  not  see  the  truth." 

He  raved  on,  but  Guy  de  Vesian  paid  no  at- 
tention. He  hardly  seemed  to  hear  his  friend's 
violent  remonstrances — even  when  they  were  di- 
rected full  at  himself. 

Isola ! 

That  liquid,  delicious  voice,  those  glorious 
eyes,  that  enchanting  form — supple  as  the  body 
of  a  young  child. 

De  Vesian  was  living  in  a  world  of  enchant- 
ment. 

There  had  been  many  enthusiastic  "calls." 
Lucienne  Gerome  had  been  presented  with  great 
baskets  of  roses.  A  cluster  of  waxen  lilies,  tied 
with  broad  white  ribbons,  had  been  handed  up 
to  "Madeleine," 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  115 

A  moment  later  a  bouquet  of  pink  moss-roses 
was  flung  on  the  stage — from  a  box.  It  fell  at 
Isola's  feet,  and  she  picked  it  up.  She  was 
trembling  with  excitement  and  fatigue.  Tears 
stood  in  her  dark  eyes  as  she  offered  the  roses 
to  Lucienne.  The  actress  thrust  them  back  with 
a  contemptuous  gesture. 

The  tears  overflowed  as  the  girl  raised  her 
head  and  looked  at  the  brilliant  house.  She  was 
terrified.  Something  in  Lucienne's  manner  had 
made  her  feel  that  her  efforts — her  frantic,  tire- 
less efforts,  had  been  a  failure.  She  was  over- 
wrought. 

As  the  curtain  was  descending  for  the  last 
time  she  noticed  that  some  one  was  leaning  for- 
ward in  a  box — clapping  wildly. 

It  was  Robin  Underwood ! 

The  moss-roses  were  his.  She  felt  sure  of  it. 
Robin  was  clapping  for  her  sake — to  give  her 
courage !  She  looked  straight  at  him  and  smiled 
— very  faintly.  At  that  moment  the  falling  cur- 
tain hid  her  from  view. 

Princess  Borizoff  rose. 

"She  is  beautiful,"  she  said  gently,  as  she  laid 
her  hand  on  the  boy's  arm.  "She  has  her 
father's  eyes.  I  find  her  very  interesting — I  must 
see  something  of  her." 

The  boy  caught  his  breath. 


ii6  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

"Auntie!  What  a  darling  you  are — what  a 
lovely,  perfect  darling!" 

The  whispered  words,  spoken  in  a  voice 
hoarse  with  emotion,  were  almost  drowned  in 
the  rustle  of  silks  and  laces;  but  Princess  Bori- 
zoff  heard  them. 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"When  you  and  your  mother  have  gone  back 
to  England  I  shall  ask  Miss  Dering  to  come  and 
see  me." 

She  also  spoke  very  softly.  Robin  caught  her 
hand  and  pressed  it. 

"Sweetest  and  loveliest  of  women — I  under- 
stand. I'm  the  happiest  man  in  the  whole  world 
— now!" 

"'Man'?" 

Robin  answered  the  insulting  insinuation  by 
repeating  his  pressure  of  her  daintily  gloved 
hand. 

Just  then  Clio  Underwood  joined  them. 

"Monsieur  de  Vesian  is  making  his  way 
round,"  she  said  quickly. 

The  Princess  passed  her  hand  through 
Robin's  arm. 

"Come!"  she  said.  "It's  time  to  go.  I  have 
not  the  least  wish  to  see  our  great  minor-poet." 


CHAPTER  VII 

MRS.  UNDERWOOD  was  sitting  alone  in 
Princess    Borizoff's    favorite   salon:    the 
smaller  room  which  was  situated  at  the  end  of 
the  reception-rooms. 

It  was  a  warm  day.  She  had  thrown  off  her 
hat.  Her  chair  was  drawn  close  to  an  open  win- 
dow. 

The  Princess  was  out  driving,  but  Clio  War- 
ing was  quite  at  her  ease.  She  was  on  the  most 
intimate  terms  of  friendship  with  the  lovely 
woman  who  was  the  idol,  and  yet  the  despot,  of 
Paris. 

She  looked  pretty  and  infinitely  graceful  as 
she  ruffled  up  her  soft  brown  hair,  which  as  yet 
showed  no  silver  threads,  and  stretched  her  arms 
out  on  the  cushions  of  her  low  chair. 

She  was  perfectly,  though  quietly,  dressed.  A 
subtle  quality  which  may  be  called  "finish"  per- 
vaded her  whole  personality.  She  gave  the  im- 
pression of  a  woman  who  had  been  cared  for — 
passionately  loved,  all  her  life. 

On  the  broad  terrace  there  was  silence — the 
golden  silence  of  a  warm  spring  day  in  com- 
munion   with  the  spirit   of  summer.      Already 
there  were  roses  on  the  climbing  branches  which 
117 


ii8  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

clung  against  the  stone  balustrades.  Already 
the  breath  of  the  pale  sun-god  was  warm  and 
soothing. 

Some  trick  of  memory  carried  her  back,  sud- 
denly, to  an  afternoon — years  before — at  the 
Villa  Borizoff,  in  Rome. 

Then  she  had  been  Clio  Waring. 

The  big,  splendid  American  who  was  to  be- 
come her  devoted  husband  was  then  only  a  warm 
admirer.  The  world  had  seemed  very  young — 
very  full  of  possibilities. 

And  those  possibilities  had  been  abundantly 
realized  for  her — for  a  time. 

She  had  been  happy,  gloriously,  most  perfect- 
ly happy! 

Life  had  seemed  like  one  long  delicious  dream. 

How  he  had  loved  her — that  man  with  the 
clean-cut  features  of  the  Emperor  Hadrian  and 
the  dominating,  exquisitely  caressing  manner. 

How  passionately  he  had  loved  her.  How 
sheltered  had  been  her  life  while  he  lived.  How 
utterly,  utterly  forlorn  she  had  felt  when  his 
place  became  suddenly  empty. 

Her  thoughts,  in  obedience  to  the  promptings 
of  a  keenly  sensitive  imagination,  lingered  for  a 
moment  over  the  memory  of  those  early  days  in 
Rome,  when  she  had  been  wooed — and  won. 
Then  they  took  flight  and  sought  shelter  in  the 
home — the  lovely  old  country-house  in  sunny 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  119 

Devon  where  her  boy  had  been  born,  where  she 
had  drunk  deep  of  the  waters  of  perfect  peace, 
where,  at  last,  she  had  learnt  that  a  little  child 
may  have  the  power  to  combat  the  demon  of 
madness. 

She  leaned  back  and  closed  her  eyes. 

Robin! 

Her  baby — her  boy — her  tireless  cavalier. 

How  splendid  he  was.  How  full  of  the  glory 
of  life  and  hope  arid  love. 

Robin ! 

Unconsciously  she  put  up  her  hand  and  ten- 
derly touched  a  great  bunch  of  Parma  violets 
which  had  been  fastened  amongst  the  laces  of 
her  bodice  by  his  loving  fingers,  not  an  hour  ago. 

He  seemed  made  up  of  delightful  little  ways. 
They  were  absolutely  natural  to  him.  And  how 
welcome  they  were  to  the  mother-heart. 

He  had  seen  her  safely  into  the  carriage  at 
the  door  of  the  Continental  Hotel  where  they 
were  staying.  He  had  stood  and  watched  her, 
bareheaded,  with  the  tireless  breezes  of  the  Rue 
Castiglione  disturbing  the  ripple  of  light  brown 
hair  on  his  forehead.  He  had  waved  his  hand 
gaily  as  the  carriage  turned  into  the  Rue  de  Ri- 
voli,  and  she  recalled  the  pang  of  dismay  whicH 
had  flashed  across  her  mind  at  that  moment  be- 
cause she  had,  just  then,  realized  that  she  was 
about  to  betray  him — in  a  way.  "Betray" 


120  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

seemed  too  strong  a  word,  but  it  was  certainly 
true  that  she  had  started  out  with  the  intention 
of  discussing  him  with  her  old  friend  Gabrielle 
Borizoff. 

She  sighed  impatiently. 

It  must  be  getting  late.  She  had  come  out  to 
the  Avenue  due  Bois  with  a  fixed  intention,  but 
she  knew  that  this  intention  was  capable  of  being 
weakened  by  the  passage  of  time. 

She  was  desperately  unhappy  about  Robin, 
desperately  uncertain  as  to  the  direction  in  which 
lay  the  path  of  duty.  She  felt  she  must  have 
advice — the  advice  of  an  old  and  tried  friend. 
Gabrielle  Borizoff  was  not  at  all  fond  of  being 
bothered  about  other  people's  intimate  difficul- 
ties, but  she  was  a  real  friend.  And  she  loved 
Robin. 

Some  one  was  speaking  in  one  of  the  larger 
rooms.  A  moment  later  the  Princess  came  in. 
She  was  looking  magnificently  handsome.  There 
was  a  tinge  of  pale  rose  on  her  ivory  cheeks. 
Her  mantle  of  sapphire-blue  velvet  and  sable 
fell  in  regal  folds  about  her  gracious  form.  In 
her  hand  she  had  a  cluster  of  loose  roses. 

She  smiled  as  she  kissed  her  visitor  on  both 
cheeks. 

"Welcome — many  times !  I  am  enchanted  to 
•  see  you!" 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  121 

"You've  been  in  the  Bois?" 

"I  have  been  calling  on  an  old  friend  who  has 
a  villa  at  Boulogne  sur  Seine.  The  air  out  there 
is  splendid.  It  has  made  me  quite  ravenous ! 
Surely  they  have  brought  in  your  tea?" 

There  was  an  impatient  ring  in  the  rich 
voice.  Mrs.  Underwood  hastened  to  explain 
that  she  had  elected  to  await  the  return  of  her 
hostess. 

"What  nonsense!  You  are  at  home  here. 
Why  should  you  wait  for  any  one?" 

Clio  laughed  and  patted  her  friend's  hand 
soothingly. 

"Don't  get  excited !  Your  devoted  people  did 
everything  well-trained  domestics  could  do.  I 
wished  to  wait  and  so — I  waited." 

The  Princess  threw  back  her  wrap  and  sat 
down.  She  was  gowned  in  some  clinging  black 
stuff  and  the  great  rope  of  pearls  which  she  al- 
ways wore  gleamed  white  against  the  sombre 
folds  that  outlined  her  bust. 

"Where's  the  boy?" 

"Robin?" 

"Of  course.  There  is  only  one  real  boy  in  the 
world — our  world  at  any  rate !" 

"He  is  very  young.  Terribly  young,  I  often 
think." 

"Terribly?"' 

There  was  a  malicious  light  in  Princess  Bori- 


122  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

zoff's  dark  eyes.  She  bent  over  the  tea-tray 
which  had  just  been  brought  in. 

"Yes.  'Terribly!'  He's  a  perfect  darling, 
but  he  has  his  father's  nature  in  many  respects. 
It's  not  easy  to  influence  him  when  he  has  made 
up  his  mind — to  do  anything." 

"No?  Do  you  care  to  explain  that  'any- 
thing'?" 

"Yes — I  think  so.  In  fact  I  came  out  here 
to-day  for  the  purpose  of  asking  your  advice. 
I'm  in  a  great  difficulty,  Gabrielle.  I'm  literally 
worried  to  death  and  I  don't  know  which  way 
to  turn." 

"All  because  of  my  boy  Robby?" 

"Yes.  All  because  of  Robin  and  because 
of_of " 

The  Princess  put  down  her  cup  and  leaned 
her  arm  on  the  table.  She  had  not  the  slightest 
intention  of  helping  her  friend  out.  If  there 
was  something  to  be  said  it  must  be  said  with- 
out assistance  from  her. 

Mrs.  Underwood  looked  at  her  irritably. 

"You  know  very  well  what  I  mean.  He's 
madly  in  love  with  that  girl.  I  thought  at  first 
it  was  just  a  passing  fancy  for  a  pretty  actress, 
but  he  gets  worse  and  worse.  Last  night  he  told 
me  he  was  determined  to  marry  her — absolutely 
determined." 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  123 

"I  presume  you  are  speaking  of  Miss  Der- 
ing?" 

"Of  course." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"She's  a  beautiful  girl.  Her  father  was  a 
friend  of  yours.  I  believe  you  still  keep  up  a 
sort  of  friendship  with  his  sister,  this  girl's 
aunt?  What  is  the  immense  objection?" 

"  'Objection?'  To  Isola  Bering  as  a  wife  for 
Robin?  Are  you  mad?" 

The  Princess  laughed  softly. 

"I  don't  think  so!  I  can  understand  that  you 
would  not,  perhaps,  have  chosen  an  actress  as  a 
wife  for  your  only  son,  but  then — the  young  man 
is  one  of  those  who  do  their  own  choosing.  I 
fancy  you  brought  him  up  to  have  an  independ- 
ent spirit?  And  then — there  really  is  something 
in  heredity.  Your  husband  was  one  of  the  most 
charming  men  I  ever  met,  but  I  don't  think  he 
was  easily  influenced — when  once  he  had  made 
up  his  mind." 

Tears  rushed  into  Clio  Underwood's  brown 
eyes:  she  looked  down.  For  a  moment  there 
was  silence.  The  Princess  stretched  out  her 
hand. 

"Forgive  me,  Clio.  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt 

you,  but  Robin He  is  such  a  dear  boy^ 

and  so  devoted  to  you.  Can  nothing  be  done?" 


124  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

"To  make  him  give  up  the  idea  of  marrying 
that  girl?  Nothing  that  I  know  of." 

"But  I  thought — I  understood — that  Miss 
Bering  had  refused  him?" 

A  flush  of  vivid  indignation  flooded  the 
mother's  face. 

"She  did  refuse  him.  It  was  the  most  im- 
pertinent thing  I  ever  heard  of.  Refuse  Robin! 
A  little  unknown  actress  who  plays  at  the  Thea- 
tre Gerome,  of  all  places  in  the  world!" 

Princess  Borizoff  found  it  impossible  to  stran- 
gle a  smile.  She  bent  low  over  the  tea-table  to 
hide  it. 

It  was  a  curious  situation — but  very  natural. 
The  mother  was  indignant  because  her  son 
wished  to  marry  the  young  actress,  but  she  was 
even  more  indignant  because  the  young  actress 
did  not  want  to  marry  her  son.  It  was  comical 
— from  an  outside  point  of  view. 

"But  then?"  The  voice  was  well  under  con- 
trol, even  though  there  was  a  mischievous  curve 
hovering  round  the  curves  of  the  perfect  mouth. 
"Then — the  matter  is  at  an  end?  You  may  feel 
annoyed  with  Miss  Bering,  but  surely  you  also 
feel  relieved?" 

"Not  at  all!  She  refused  him,  heaven  only 
knows  why,  but  she  is  still  leading  him  on.  You 
saw  how  she  looked  up  at  him — the  other  night 
— at  the  end  of  that  abominable  play?" 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  125 

For  a  second  Princess  Borizoff  closed  her  eyes. 

In  imagination  she  was  back  again  in  the 
crowded  theater.  All  around  there  was  a  tumult 
of  sound.  Men — women  too — were  eagerly  ex- 
pressing their  feelings.  An  ominous  hissing 
sound  was  making  itself  felt  through  the  sharp 
ring  of  clapping  hands. 

On  the  stage  there  was  a  girl — in  white 
draperies — with  a  great  bunch  of  moss-roses 
tightly  clasped  in  her  trembling  hands.  And  the 
girl  was  frightened.  There  were  tears  in  the 
dark  eyes  that  sought  out — as  a  child  might  seek 
for  a  friend — the  eager  face  of  the  donor  of 
those  homely  roses. 

Yes !  She  had  seen  Isola  Bering  look  up  at 
Robin  at  that  critical  moment.  And  she  knew 
the  girl  had  done  so  instinctively — without  the 
shadow  of  intention. 

Those  dark  eyes,  veiled  in  tears,  had  sought 
for  a  friend.  And  the  eyes  of  the  daughter  were 
so  extraordinarily  like  those  of  the  dead  father. 

"You  have  met  Miss  Dering?  You  know 
her?" 

Clio  turned  in  her  chair  impatiently. 

"I  know  her  very  little.  I  saw  her  once  or 
twice  when  I  was  calling  on  her  aunt;  that's 
all." 

"And  you  dislike  her?" 

There  was  a  note  of  quiet  insistence  in  the  low 


126  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

voice.  Mrs.  Underwood  looked  across  the 
table. 

"As  a  girl,  I  neither  like  nor  dislike  her.  As 
a  wife  for  Robin  she  is,  of  course,  impossible." 

"But  why?  Robin  is  very  well  off.  He  does 
not  need  to  seek  for  a  wife  with  a  substantial  dot. 
And  so  far  as  family  goes — I  have  always  under- 
stood that  Mr.  Bering's  father  was  a  man  of  po- 
sition. And  though  Sir  Weston  Hilliard,  if  I 
remember  aright,  was  not  a  particularly  desir- 
able person,  'his  people  were  all  right,'  as  my 
old  friend  Lady  Egerton  would  have  said." 

"Gabrielle!  What  do  you  mean  ?  You — who 
are  so  fond  of  Robin — you  wish  him  to  marry 
an  actress  off  the  French  stage?  A  girl  who 
has  associated,  intimately,  with  a  woman  like 
Gerome?" 

"My  dear !  I  never  expressed  a  personal  wish 
in  this  connection.  My  personal  wishes  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  You  say  that 
Robby  is  determined  to  marry  Miss  Bering?  I 
merely  ask,  tentatively,  what  is  your  real  objec- 
tion to  such  a  marriage?  As  to  Gerome " 

The  Princess  shrugged  her  shoulders  disdain- 
fully, Mrs.  Underwood  leaned  forward. 

"There!  You  see  it — too.  You  recognize 
that  the  Gerome  entourage  is  an  impossible  one." 

"My  dear  Clio — our  dear,  delightful  boy  is 
not  proposing  to  marry  La  Belle  Lucienne !  And 


WHAT  IS  LOVE4?  127 

if  he  did  propose  such  a  thing,  I  assure  you — 
please  do  not  get  indignant — she  would  refuse 
him !  Gerome  need  not  be  taken  into  serious 
consideration.  She  is  finished — almost.  If  you 
are  afraid  that  later  on  she  would  be  an  undesir- 
able acquaintance  for  your  son's  possible  wife, 
you  are  giving  yourself  unnecessary  annoyance. 
When  Lucienne  Gerome  realizes  that  she  is  a 
middle-aged  woman "  She  paused  a  sec- 
ond; a  faint  smile,  in  which  there  was  something 
of  cruelty  as  well  as  much  of  contempt,  stole 
across  her  face.  "You  remember  the  last  act 
of  the  Jeune  file  de  Demain?  The  mother? 
Gerome  will  do  something  of  that  sort — one 
day." 

"Gabrielle!"  Mrs.  Underwood  was  staring 
at  her  friend  in  open  horror.  "You  think  the 
woman  will  commit  suicide?  You  realize  that 
she  is  utterly  without  decent  principles — or 
ideas?  And  still — still " 

"I  repeat  that  you  need  not  concern  yourself 
with  her.  It  has  happened  that  Miss  Dering's 
experiment  has  been  made  at  the  Theatre 
Gerome — which  is,  after  all,  one  of  the  leading 
theaters  of  Paris.  I  think  it  a  pity  that  such  an 
experiment  should  have  been  made,  but  what 
will  you?  In  these  days  young  girls  are  per- 
mitted a  great  deal  of  freedom.  Personal  lib- 
erty is  theoretically  the  fashion." 


128  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

"If  you  had  a  son  of  your  own — an  only  son 
— would  you  like  him  to  marry  a  girl  off  the 
French  stage?" 

The  question  was  blunt,  almost  offensively 
direct.  Even  to  her  most  intimate  friends 
Princess  Borizoff  allowed  very  little  real  liberty 
of  speech.  She  drew  herself  up. 

"I  have  never  had  a  son,  therefore  I  cannot 
make  it  a  personal  matter.  But  I  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  believe  that  there  can  be  anything  of  a 
serious  nature  against  Mr.  Bering's  daughter." 

"Against  her?  No!  Against  her  chosen 
profession — yes !  a  thousand  times  yes.  You 
know  I  am  not  a  particularly  prudish  person, 
but  I  do  draw  the  line  at  the  French  stage — es- 
pecially the  stage  in  Paris.  It's  frankly  impossi- 
ble for  a  really  nice  girl — the  sort  of  girl  one's 
son  might  marry.  You  know  that — all  the 
world  knows  it.  I  don't  say  that  French  act- 
resses aren't  delightful  and  clever  and  amusing, 
but  they  have  no  social  position — absolutely 
none,  and  it's  impossible  that  they  could  have 
any  position.  They're  a  thing  apart — it's  rec- 
ognized that  some  one  must  back  them — some 
one  must  pay  for  their  wonderful  gowns — some 
one  must  supply  them  with  carriages  and  jewels 
and  steam  yachts  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I  don't 
blame  them  for  snatching  all  they  can,  with  both 
hands,  for  they're  obliged  to  dress  splendidly 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  129 

and  go  everywhere,  otherwise  people  wouldn't 
talk  about  them,  but  when  it  comes  to  marrying 
one  of  them — no!  no!  It's  quite  impossible." 

"But  I  thought  this  is  just  what  Miss  Bering 
herself  has  said?" 

"She  has  refused  Robin — no  one  knows  why. 
But  she  means  to  marry  him  by-and-by.  Of 
that  I'm  absolutely  certain." 

"You  think  she  really  cares  for  him?" 

"I  think  she  really  cares  for  his  money — his 
position." 

Clio  spoke  bitterly.  She  was  thoroughly 
roused.  For  days  and  weeks  she  had  been  brood- 
ing over  her  trouble.  When  Robin  had  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  "running  over  to  Paris" 
she  had  at  once  proposed  to  accompany  him.  She 
was  miserable  there,  but  she  would  have  been 
far  more  miserable  in  Devon — unable  to  see 
what  was  going  on — imagining  all  sorts  of  hor- 
rible things. 

Her  love  for  her  son  amounted  to  idolatry. 
He  was  the  center  of  her  existence.  It  is  prob- 
able that  she  would  have  secretly  disliked  any 
girl  who  seemed  likely  to  rob  her  of  her  treas- 
ure, but  in  the  case  of  Isola  Dering  she  felt  that 
secrecy  was  unnecessary :  all  the  world  must  re- 
alize that  such  a  marriage  was  impossible. 

A  second  time,  within  a  fortnight,  a  strange 
thing  happened  to  Princess  Borizoff.  A  second 


130  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

time  she  felt  a  curious  mother-instinct  fluttering 
in  her  heart. 

Her  old  friend  Clio  Underwood  had  many 
claims  on  her  consideration  and  affection.  She 
had  never,  so  far,  spoken  to  the  young  actress. 
And  yet — yet,  she  felt  indignant  when  Robin's 
mother  asserted  that  Isola  Bering  was  likely  to 
be  attracted  by  Robin's  money — his  position. 

The  emotion  was  unaccountable,  but  it  was 
present;  and  the  Princess  realized  this. 

She  was  not  accustomed  to  concealing  her 
feelings.  At  that  moment  she  permitted  her 
friend  to  see  that  she  was  displeased. 

"I  think  you  are  not  a  very  good  judge  of 
character,  chere  amie!  Certainly  you  do  not 
appreciate  the  power  of  atavism.  It  is  a  little 
difficult  to  believe  that  Mr.  Bering's  daughter 
could  be  a  fortune-hunter." 

A  bright  flush  mounted  to  Mrs.  Underwood's 
face.  She  turned  and  stared  at  her  friend. 

"I  suppose  you  remember  that  she  had  a 
mother?  What  of  Miss  Violet  Hilliard's  views 
of  life — her  ambitions?  All  that  happened  a 
long  time  ago,  but  I  don't  suppose  you  have  for- 
gotten that  she  was  quite  anxious  to  sell  herself 
to  your  friend  Prince  Platoff  ?  When  you  place 
faith  in  atavism  you  must  take  into  consideration 
the  fact  that  there  is  a  mother  as  well  as  a  father 
in  the  case !" 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  131 

"Yes."  The  Princess  was  leaning  back  in  her 
chair.  Her  face  was  calm  and  very  cold.  Only 
a  very  close  observer  could  have  seen  the  gleam 
of  anger  in  her  dark  eyes.  "Yes!  I  never  met 
Mr.  Bering's  wife,  but  I  understand  that  she,  at 
one  time,  had  some  intention  of  becoming  Prin- 
cess Platoff.  Nevertheless  the  fact  remains  that 
she  became  Mrs.  Bering!  And  in  considering 
the  little  girl  who  is  just  now  attracting  all  Paris 
to  the  Theatre  Gerome,  I  do  not  think  we  need 
trouble  very  much  about  the  mother.  Made- 
moiselle Isola  is  her  father's  daughter,  or  I  am 
seriously  mistaken.  She  has  his  eyes,  very 
much  of  his  expression,  much  of  his  manner.  She 
is  still  a  young  girl — not  more  than  eighteen  I 
should  suppose.  But  though  young,  she  is  not 
weak;  certainly  she  is  not  avaricious.  That  much 
any  student  of  human  nature  could  realize  after 
having  once  seen  her.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned 
I  neither  approve  nor  disapprove  of  this  idea  of 
Robby's:  I  hold  myself  aloof  until  I  have  had 
an  opportunity  of  making  Miss  Bering's  per- 
sonal acquaintance,  but  I  think  you  will  find  that 
your  boy  is  in  earnest — very  much  in  earnest 
indeed." 

"Boys  of  his  age  are  always  'in  earnest'  when 
they  fancy  themselves  in  love." 

Mrs.  Underwood  was  excited  and  indignant. 
It  was  incredible — this  attitude  of  her  old 


132  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

friend!  She  could  not  understand  it,  but  she 
felt  she  had  a  right  to  be  angry. 

"In  this  case  I  do  not  think  it  is  'fancy.'  " 

"Robin  has  spoken  to  you  of  this  girl?" 

The  question  was  abrupt.  Clio  Underwood 
was  really  angry. 

"No,  not  exactly.  But  I  have  seen  him  look 
at  her." 

"Look!" 

The  Princess  laughed  softly. 

"You  are  displeased  with  me?  But  I  assure 
you  there  is  much  in  a  'look !'  Personally  I  place 
much  more  confidence  in  the  eyes  than  in  the 
mouth — where  truth  is  concerned." 

"It's  just  a  mad  infatuation.  He'll  get  over 
it  and  then  he'll  thank  me  for  having  kept  him 
from  wrecking  his  whole  life." 

"You  may  be  right." 

The  silence  lasted  quite  a  long  time.  Clio 
was  too  much  annoyed  to  speak  calmly.  Prin- 
cess Borizoff  was  gazing  dreamily  out  on  the 
darkening  terrace. 

Why  had  she  taken  up  this  attitude?  Why 
had  she  voluntarily  proclaimed  herself  a  cham- 
pion of  the  wilful  girl  who  had  set  all  Paris 
talking? 

Why? 

Too  proud  to  be  a  coward,  in  small  things  or 
in  great,  she  drew  aside  the  veil  which  shrouded 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  133 

her  heart.  She  silently  gave  the  answer  to  that 
"Why!" 

She  was  prepared  to  protect  the  daughter 
because  of  her  ideal  memory  of  the  father;  be- 
cause Miles  Bering  was  still  enshrined  in  the 
sacred  places  of  her  life,  because  she  believed 
that  he  was  the  one  man  she  could  have  accepted 
as  lord  and  master  of  her  life. 

All  those  years  she  had  cherished  his  memory. 
In  silence,  in  strictest  secrecy,  she  had  idealized 
him.  She  had  placed  him  on  a  pedestal.  And 
his  death  had  made  it  possible  for  her  to  keep 
him  there.  There  had  never  been  a  moment  of 
disillusion. 

When  she  communed  with  her  own  thoughts 
it  pleased  her  to  feel  sure  that  if  things  had  been 
different — //  he  had  loved  her — if  he  had  lived, 
her  life  would  have  been  very  different.  It 
pleased  her  to  feel  convinced  that  she,  also, 
could  have  been  humble  and  loving — with  the 
right  man.  She  was  an  intelligent  woman,  and 
full  of  worldly  knowledge.  Her  intelligence 
told  her  that  no  man — not  even  Miles  Bering — 
would  have  had  the  power  to  change  her  nature, 
radically:  but  then  her  vivid  imagination  whis- 
pered another  story.  And  when  she  was  alone 
with  her  memories  her  imagination  always  stole 
out  and  took  possession  of  the  seat  of  honor. 

One  of  Robin  Underwood's  chief  attractions 


134  WHAT  IS  LOVE"? 

was  his  fine,  sane  view  of  life,  and  of  love.  She 
loved  to  hear  the  boy  talk  freely  about  his  ideas 
and  his  ambitions.  In  some  subtle  way  he  re- 
minded her  of  the  "Painter  of  Souls." 

Robin  was  little  more  than  a  boy,  and  for  his 
age  he  was  very  young,  but  he  was  full  of 
splendid  enthusiasms:  and  he,  like  the  painter, 
was  absolutely  free  from  mannerisms  or  "pose." 
Many  and  many  a  time  she  had  taken  the  trouble 
to  draw  him  out  just  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
his  fresh  ideas,  his  firm-  belief  in  the  power  of 
ideals.  There  had  been  moments  when  he  had 
been  able,  unconsciously,  to  take  her  back  to 
those  golden  days  when  Miles  Bering  had  given 
her  a  little  lecture  on  the  subject  of  muffin- 
toasting  in  the  lovely  green  and  white  salon  of 
her  villa  at  Rome;  when  he  and  she  had  dis- 
coursed on  a  hundred  different  subjects;  when 
they  had,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  walked 
amongst  the  roses  in  her  famous  garden. 

Yes,  many  of  Robin's  ideas  ran  hand  in  hand 
with  those  of  the  dead  painter.  And  the  boy 
loved  that  painter's  only  daughter!  What  was 
to  be  the  end  of  it? 

Mrs.  Underwood  rose  from  her  seat  and 
walked  to  the  window.  For  several  moments 
she  stood  there,  looking  out.  Then  she  turned 
round. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  135 

"Gabrielle !  Please  help  me  in  this  matter. 
You  have  a  great  deal  of  influence  with  Robin — 
he  thinks  there's  no  one  like  you.  Will  you 
make  an  opportuunity  of  speaking  to  him  about 
the  life  French  actresses  are  obliged  to  lead — of 
the  dreadful  people  they  are  obliged  to  associate 
with  ?  You  could  do  it  quite  naturally — so  much 
better  than  I  could.  You  are  rather  fond  of 
doing  and  saying  mischievous  things,  but  I  know 
you  have  my  boy's  happiness  at  heart.  Please  be 
serious  in  this  matter  and  do  as  I  suggest." 

The  Princess  looked  at  her  visitor  intently. 

"I  am  serious.  And  in  all  seriousness  I  ask 
you  if  you  really  believe  that  Miss  Bering  has 
done  anything  which  would  make  her  unworthy 
to  be  Robin's  wife?  Do  you  really  believe  that 
the  stage — even  the  stage  of  Paris — has  con- 
taminated her?  Could  you  look  at  her  and  doubt 
her  purity?"  The  rich  voice  vibrated.  Clio 
looked  startled. 

"I  didn't  say  that,  exactly — though  every  one 
is  talking  about  de  Vesian's  admiration  for  the 
girl,  and  you  know  what  he  is.  I  didn't  say 
that  there  was  anything  really  wrong,  only  that 
it  was  from  every  point  of  view  impossible." 

"And  suppose  Robby  refuses  to  take  this 
view?  Suppose  he  insists  on  taking  his  own 
way?  "What  then?  He  is  just  of  age — I  think 
his  father's  will  gave  him  a  great  deal  of  liberty 


136  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

as  well  as  plenty  of  money.  Suppose  he  refuses 
to  abandon  his  determination  to  win  Miss  Der- 
ing — what  then  ?  Can  you  take  the  risk  of  los- 
ing him  altogether?" 

"Losing  Robin?"  Clio  came  forward  very 
quickly.  "Losing  him — what  do  you  mean?" 

"It  is  a  pitiful  case  when  a  man,  a  boy,  has  to 
choose  between  his  mother  and  the  girl  he 
loves." 

"You  think Gabrielle — what  is  in  your 

mind — speak  plainly!" 

The  Princess  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly. 
With  careless  grace  she  took  up  her  fan  and 
opened  it. 

"My  dear  woman,  what  is  there  for  me  to 
say?  I  asked  if  you  were  willing  to  take  the 
risk  of  losing  your  son — that's  all." 

"You  think You  think " 

But  what  Princess  Borizoff  thought  remained 
a  secret,  for  a  visitor  was  announced  and  the 
conversation  was  not  renewed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MY  dear  Miss  Dering!  'Bored'?  I  don't 
think  I  have  ever  been  really  bored! 
Certainly  you  and  this  delicious  tea  and  these 
scrumptious  cakes  aren't  'boring' — very  much 
the  reverse!" 

Robin  Underwood  pulled  a  chintz-covered 
pillow  from  behind  his  back  and  punched  it 
violently.  When  it  was  soft  enough  to  satisfy 
him  he  tucked  it  behind  his  head  and  leaned  back 
contentedly. 

Jessica  Dering  smiled.  He  was  one  of  her 
favorites — this  tall  youth  with  frank  blue  eyes 
and  supple  limbs.  He  always  brought  a  breath 
of  pure  country  air  with  him  when  he  invaded 
the  Rue  de  Douai.  And  then  his  manners  were 
so  delightful,  his  whole  personality  so  engaging. 

The  smile  broadened  as  she  watched  him  help 
himself  to  two  tetes  de  negres,  luscious  little 
cakes  made  of  chocolate  and  whipped  cream 
which  he  had  loudly  praised  on  the  occasion  of 
his  last  visit  and  which  she  had  sent  for  specially 
that  morning.  During  that  last  visit — her  niece 
had  been  present  then — Robin  had  fiercely  dis- 
cussed the  pros  and  cons  of  little  silver  forks  in 
connection  with  tetes  de  negres.  He  had  ex- 
is? 


138  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

pressed  the  opinion  that  a  small  spoon  would  be 
much  more  practical:  Isola,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  defended  the  small  fork.  Each  had,  in  turn, 
demonstrated.  There  had  been  much  laughter 
and  light-hearted  fun. 

The  poor  little  lonely  aunt  was  unhappy. 

She  and  her  niece  were  on  apparently  friendly 
terms,  yet — a  gulf  yawned  between  them. 
Sometimes  Jessica  Bering  thought  that  it  was 
her  duty  to  bridge  over  that  gulf.  But  how  ? 

Isola  was  always  polite  and  attentive  to  her. 
She  never  failed  in  any  of  those  small  attentions 
which  are  due  from  a  girl  to  her  guardian.  She 
never  seemed  to  refuse  her  confidence  and  yet 
she  never  gave  it.  It  seemed  to  the  aunt  that  there 
was  between  them  something  of  an  armed  peace. 
There  were  moments  when  she  longed  to  throw 
down  her  own  poor  weapons  and  to  beg  for  a 
complete  understanding;  but  she  could  not  do  it. 
Something  in  her  nature  made  it  impossible  for 
her  to  humble  herself,  in  that  way. 

And  Isola? 

The  girl  seemed  drifting  through  life  on  the 
breast  of  a  fever  wave.  She  was  always  excited, 
always  restless,  always,  unconsciously,  expectant. 

She  was  a  success  and  yet — she  was  a  failure ! 

She  had  not  realized  the  "Madeleine" 
imagined  by  Gaston  Lery,  but  she  had  created  a 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  139 

"Madeleine"  which  was  attracting  all  Paris  to 
the  Theatre  Gerome. 

At  first  Lucienne  Gerome  had  been  furious. 
Then  the  voice  of  Jules  Rivaud  had  made  itself 
heard.  The  astute  manager  had  quickly  recog- 
nized the  fact  that  from  a  financial  point  of  view 
the  piece  would  accomplish  a  succes  fou.  And  he 
was  strong  enough  to  dominate  La  Belle 
Gerome's  tigerish  moods,  just  as  he  was  strong 
enough  to  force  the  debauched  Lery  to  see  on 
which  side  his  bread  was  buttered.  And  in  this 
contest  of  will,  or  of  mood,  he  had  been  ably 
assisted  by  Guy  de  Vesian.  In  his  own  way 
Rivaud  was  as  unscrupulous  as  was  his  trouble- 
some dramatist.  When  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
arrive  at  a  certain  point,  he  arrived.  And  he 
had  started  on  his  career  with  the  fixed  intention 
of  making  enough  money  to  retire  while  still  a 
comparatively  young  man.  Actors,  actresses, 
dramatists,  poets,  musicians!  all  were  to  him  so 
many  chessmen.  Some  were  knights,  some  were 
kings  and  queens,  many  were  merely  pawns.  But 
each  one  had  to  be  coerced  into  making  the  right 
move — for  Jules  Rivaud ! 

He  had  been  amused  at  the  turn  things  had 
taken  with  regard  to  the  latest  Lery  play.  He 
had  understood  that  the  dramatist  had  cause  for 
complaint.  But  the  moment  he  realized  that 
Isola  Dering  was  going  to  be  a  "fine  draw"  he 


140  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

determined  to  run  the  piece  right  to  the  end  of 
the  season,  just  as  it  was ! 

Lery  had  stormed! 

Lucienne  Gerome  had  been  absolutely  violent ! 

But  the  manager  had  never  lost  an  inch  of 
ground.  His  mind  was  made  up.  There  was 
money  in  the  piece,  much  money.  Isola  Bering 
was  to  retain  her  part.  She  was  to  go  on  play- 
ing the  role  of  the  Jeune  fille  de  Demain  to  the 
best  of  her  ability.  The  more  she  tried  to  con- 
vey an  impression  of  an  innate  corruption  which 
was  incomprehensible  to  her  the  more  people 
talked;  and  discussed;  and  paid! 

And  it  was  Guy  de  Vesian  who  had  made  it 
possible  for  Rivaud  to  carry  his  point.  The  poet 
was  at  heart  an  eclectic  artist.  He  adored  art 
for  art's  own  dear  sake.  And  he  knew  that  from 
an  "artistic"  point  of  view  Isola  was  not  an  ideal 
"Madeleine." 

But  she  was  exquisite!  so  wonderfully  fresh, 
so  full  of  unrealized  passion,  so  strong ;  and  yet 
so  confiding  and  infinitely  tender. 

She  was  exquisite ! 

When  he  thought  of  her,  alone  in  his  lovely 
garden,  his  life  seemed  filled  with  mysterious 
ecstasy.  The  enervating  perfumes  of  strange 
flowers  crept  up  and  caressed  his  senses.  She 
had  the  power  to  lead  him  into  the  enchanted 
land  of  Silver  Dreams. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  141 

She  was  his  inspiration. 

He  loved  to  sit  in  the  gloom  of  his  loge  at  the 
Theatre  Gerome  and  to  watch  her  passing  and 
re-passing  on  the  stage.  He  loved  to  hear  her 
exquisite  lips  speaking  the  burning  words  which 
his  friend  Lery  had  given  to  "Madeleine." 

It  was  his  delight  to  forget  the  crowded  house 
and  to  wander  alone  into  the  regions  of  imagina- 
tion. 

What  were  those  insidious  words  whispering 
to  her? 

Were  they  creeping  slowly  into  her  brain  ? 

Were  they  forcing  her  to  understand  their 
meaning? 

Was  the  little  pale  moth  of  corruption  secretly 
eating  into  that  wonderful,  spotless  purity? 

It  gave  Guy  de  Vesian  intense  pleasure  to 
watch  the  beautiful  girl  playing  the  much-dis- 
cussed part. 

And  with  both  Lery  and  Lucienne  Gerome 
the  poet's  word  was  law. 

Jules  Rivaud  rubbed  his  strong  hands  together 
in  complete  satisfaction.  "Ca  y  est!" 


Without  seeming  to  glance  at  the  mantelpiece 
Robin  managed  to  see  the  face  of  a  small  silver 
clock  that  stood  on  it  at  the  corner.  He  was 
far  too  polite  to  look  at  his  watch,  but  he  did 


142  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

want  to  know  when,  possibly,  the  door  might 
open  to  admit  his  defiant  Queen  of  Loveliness. 

Jessica  Dering  was  looking  at  him  through 
lowered  lashes.  She  was  smiling. 

"Your  mother  means  to  stay  some  time  in 
Paris?" 

Robin  gave  a  tremendous  start.  He  had  been 
eagerly  listening  to  the  opening  and  shutting  of 
an  outer  door. 

"Here?  Oh — I  don't  exactly  know.  A  cou 
pie  of  weeks,  I  fancy.  She  has  a  lot  of  friends 
here.  She  and  Auntie — Madame  Borizoff,  you 
know — are  tremendous  cronies." 

"Yes.  I  remember  that  your  mother  used  to 
be  very  often  with  Princess  Borizoff — before  she 
married  your  father.  That  was  in  Rome,  many 
years  ago." 

"Mr.  Dering — your  brother — was  alive 
then?" 

Jessica  made  a  gesture  of  assent. 

"Yes.  The  time  I  am  thinking  of  was  before 
his  marriage." 

"He  must  have  been  simply  splendid.  How 
I  wish  I  had  had  a  chance  of  knowing  him !" 

"He  was  splendid." 

She  spoke  very  quietly,  but  there  was  a  tremor 
in  her  voice.  Robin  leaned  forward,  and  softly 
covered  her  clasped  hands  with  one  of  his. 

"I've  heard  wonderful  things  about  him.     I 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  143 

think  Auntie  must  have  known  him  rather  well. 
At  any  rate,  she  thinks  no  end  of  his  paintings. 
She  has  his  'Russia,'  you  know?  She  hardly 
ever  shows  it  to  any  one — it's  hanging  in  her 
bedroom,  but  one  day  she  talked  to  me  about 
it,  and  she  told  me  that  Igor  Bolchakow,  one  of 
her  secretaries,  is  the  grandchild  of  the  old  blind 
man  in  the  foreground  of  the  picture.  Some  one 
told  her  the  story  of  the  picture,  and  she  got  hold 
of  young  Bolchakow,  and  educated  him.  Now 
he  holds  quite  a  confidential  position  in  her 
house." 

"Princess  Borizoff  did  that?  Why — I  won- 
der?" 

A  faint  tinge  of  color  had  mounted  to  Jessica 
Bering's  pale  face.  At  that  moment  Isola  came 
into  the  room. 

Robin  bounded  from  his  chair  and  grasped 
her  outstretched  hand. 

"Here  I  am  again — gobbling  up  tetes  de 
negres  with  very  little  help  from  one  of  these 
perfectly  useless  little  forks.  I've  eaten  six,  but 
I  think  your  aunt  has  a  few  reserved  ones  in 
a  bag — somewhere!  Haven't  you,  Miss  Ber- 
ing?" 

Jessica  nodded.  The  unwonted  flush  was  still 
resting  on  her  cheeks. 

"Isola  !"  she  said  quickly.  "Mr.  Underwood 
has  just  told  me  a  wonderful  thing — about  one 


144  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

of  your  father's  pictures.  You  know  his  'Russia' 
— Princess  Borizoff  has  always  had  it !  Well,  it 
appears  that  she,  in  some  way,  heard  of  the  story 
attached  to  it,  and  she  has  brought  up  and  edu- 
cated the  grandson  of  the  blind  peasant  of  whom 
you  have  often  heard  me  speak — the  old  man  in 
whom  your  father  was  so  much  interested.  Oh — 
how  I  wish  he  could  have  known  this !  It  would 
have  delighted  him  more  than  anything.  He 
did  what  he  could  for  the  old  man,  but  I  often 
heard  him  say  that  he  was  afraid  the  little  grand- 
child would  have  a  hard  time  of  it." 

Isola's  face  was  glowing  with  excitement. 

"How  splendid!  How  lovely  it  was  of 
Madame  Borizoff  to  do  that.  How  perfectly, 
absolutely  angelic !  I  have  always  longed  to  see 
father's  'Russia.'  When  I  was  a  little  girl  Dr. 
Doyenbert — he's  dead  you  know — told  me  about 
it  and  described  the  wonderful  effect  of  limitless 
snow  and  strength  and  struggle.  It  must  be  one 
of  the  most  wonderful  of  all  father's  pictures! 
How  I  wish " 

She  stopped  suddenly.  She  was  confused.  In 
her  enthusiasm  she  had  seemed  to  ask  for  an 
invitation — for  recognition.  With  a  proud  ges- 
ture she  drew  herself  up  and  advanced  to  the 
table. 

"I  am  literally  starving!  Auntie — give  me 
some  tea  this  very  minute." 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  145 

For  a  second  Robin  sat  very  still.  His  brown 
hands  were  clasped  round  his  knee.  He  was 
feeling  what  he  himself  would  have  called 
"rotten." 

He  had  wounded  her — his  peerless  Queen — 
his  "garden  of  girls!" 

Unconsciously  but  surely  he  had  wounded  her. 

What  had  he  better  do  now?  An  injudicious 
word  might,  probably  would,  make  things  much 
worse !  But  to  remain  silent ! 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  be  a  coward  or 
a  sneak — or  both. 

Miss  Dering  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea.  Robin 
started  up  and  took  it  from  her  hand. 

"You'll  love  Auntie  when  you  know  her,"  he 
said  impulsively.  "She  wants  awfully  to  make 
your  acquaintance — she  told  me  so  the  other 
day.  Lots  of  people  are  afraid  of  her,  but  she's 
really  no  end  of  a  brick — when  one  knows  her." 

Isola  smiled  meaningly. 

"You  can  give  Princess  Borizoff  our  address 
if  she  really  wants  it.  Aunt  Jessica  receives  on 
the  first  Thursday  of  the  month." 

The  two  pairs  of  young,  fervent  eyes  met.  In 
Robin's  there  was  a  frantic  appeal. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  emphatically.  "I'll 
bring  her  up  on  Miss  Bering's  next  'day.'  " 

There   was  determination    in  his  voice    and 


146  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

manner.  Jessica  Dering  looked  at  him  wonder- 
ingly. 

"Princess  Borizoff  has  never  called  upon  me," 
she  said  quietly.  "I  don't  suppose  she  will  do 
so  now.  She  knew  my  brother,  but  then,  he  had 
a  great  many  friends.  He  was  wonderfully  pop- 
ular." 

"She'll  come  up  here  with  me  on  Thursday 
week — that's  the  day,  isn't  it?  She  wants  to 
make  your  niece's  acquaintance — and  of  course 
yours  too,  she  told  me  so." 

The  hurt  look  had  vanished  from  the  girl's 
face,  she  was  smiling  rather  maliciously. 

"You  must  be  a  very  amazing  personage,  Mr. 
Underwood,  if  you  can  influence  Princess  Bori- 
zoff !  Every  one  says  that  she  is  more  imperious 
than  the  Empress  of  all  the  Russias!  I  shall 
await  events — with  curiosity.  Do  you  think  she 
will  appreciate  tetes  de  negres?" 

"I'd  back  her  to  down  any  Russian  empress 
that  ever  existed,  but  all  the  same  I'm  not  afraid 
of  her.  She's  a  perfect  darling,  and  I  know 
she'll  love  these  squashy  chaps.  Do  you  dare 
me  to  make  her  eat  one  with  a  spoon?" 

Isola  laughed.  It  was  impossible  to  keep  up 
a  great  show  of  dignity  with  this  outrageous 
youth!  His  good  humor  was  infectious.  She 
abandoned  herself  to  the  fascination  of  the 
moment. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  147 

Jessica  Dering  sat  a  little  apart  with  a  piece  of 
fine  embroidery  in  her  hand. 

They  were  chatting  joyously — the  two  young 
creatures  on  the  low  couch  at  the  other  side  of 
the  room.  There  was  nothing  in  Robin's  manner 
to  indicate  that  he  had  ever  asked  a  serious  ques- 
tion and  received  "no"  for  an  answer.  He 
seemed  absolutely  at  his  ease.  And,  strangely 
enough,  Isola  was  at  her  ease  too.  They  were 
talking  on  every  imaginable  subject — except  the 
Theatre  Gerome. 

Robin  hated,  loathed,  execrated  that  splendid 
play-house  and  everything  connected  with  it  ex- 
cept the  girl  by  his  side.  It  seemed  to  him 
nothing  short  of  sacrilege  that  his  exquisite 
darling  should  be  appearing  on  a  public  stage — 
a  target  for  impertinent  opera-glasses  and  dis- 
respectful remarks.  He  hated  it !  But  he  had 
taught  himself  to  remain  silent — for  a  time.  She 
must  be  allowed  to  have  her  fling.  She  was  the 
most  wilful,  adorable,  delicious  feminine  thing 
in  the  whole  world,  and  of  course,  she  had  a  few 
fascinating  little  faults.  The  stage  attracted  her 
because,  poor  innocent  little  darling,  she  knew 
nothing  of  its  realities.  She  was  like  Juliet  or 
Galatea  wandering  by  moonlight  in  a  graveyard, 
and  imagining  that  the  flowers  on  the  slabs  of 
white  marble  were  roses  of  rapture  instead  of 
immortelles ! 


148  WHAT  IS  LOVE"? 

She  was  so  wilful!  so  divinely  innocent!  so 
convinced  that  she  was  already  a  finished  woman 
of  the  world ! 

Robin's  voice  was  slightly  raised.  He  was 
speaking  with  warm  enthusiasm. 

"You'll  simply  love  the  big  terrace  that  over- 
looks the  sea.  The  Mater's  rose-garden  is  close 
by,  and  just  above  the  terrace  there's  a  jolly  big 
lake  covered  with  water-lilies.  Oh — it's  the  nicest 
old  place  you  can  imagine.  I  know  you'll  love 
it  almost  as  much  as  I  do." 

He  was  speaking  of  his  home  in  Devon. 
Jessica  caught  her  breath. 

What  next  ? 

Isola  was  leaning  forward.  Her  little  white 
hands  were  clasped  round  her  knees.  She  was 
looking  lovely  in  her  simple  walking  dress  of 
dark  blue  cloth.  A  big  black  picture  hat  lay  on 
the  couch  by  her  side. 

"I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  see  Stutly  Priory. 
The  south  of  England  seems  a  long  way  off." 

"Never  see  it — my  home?"  Robin  stopped 
short.  He  had  been  on  the  point  of  saying  more 
than  he  intended  to  say — just  then.  Mentally  he 
tightened  his  belt.  "Oh,  I  say — that's  not  very 
friendly.  Your  aunt  is  coming  over  to  stay  with 
us — yes,  Miss  Dering,  you  know  you've  prom- 
ised— and  though  it's  quite  country  there's  plenty 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  149 

to  do.  The  stables  are  rather  a  strong  point,  be- 
cause my  father  was  very  fond  of  horses,  and 
there're  no  end  of  interesting  places  round  about. 
It's  country,  but  we're  fairly  civilized.  And  then 
it's  nothing  to  run  up  to  town.  One  can 
motor  up  the  whole  way  in  nine  or  ten  hours. 
Most  of  the  roads  are  so  good  that  one  hasn't 
to  bother  much  about  speed-limits." 

There  was  a  glory  of  love  and  triumph  shin- 
ing in  the  deep  blue  eyes.  Isola  looked  away. 

"I'm  sure  it's  all  very  beautiful,  but  then  you 
see  the  charms  of  country  life  are  not  for  me! 
An  actress  must  live  in  big  cities  all  the  year 
round,  except  the  poor  little  holiday  of  two  or 
three  weeks — each  year !  We  two  represent  the 
rich  country  gentleman  and  the  poor  player,  you 
know." 

She  laughed.  And  in  the  musical  sound  there 
was  malice. 

Robin's  face  flushed. 

"You  like  poking  fun  at  me,  but  I  don't  care. 
Those  who  win  may  laugh,  and  you  may  count 
me  amongst  the  winners,  every  time.  When 
you're  standing,  with  me,  on  the  terrace  at  the 
end  of  the  garden,  watching  the  moon  getting 
out  of  bed,  I'll  remind  you  of  this  afternoon 
and,  like  a  jolly  old  Paddy  of  my  acquaintance, 
1'iriaff  that  hearty!'" 


150  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

The  imp  of  malice  took  flight.  It  was  im- 
possible to  resist  the  boy's  joyous  optimism. 

"When  did  you  decide  to  leave  off  pinafores? 
And  how  old,  exactly,  are  you?" 

"Half-past  twenty-one!  A  little  more  than 
three  years  older  than  you,  Mademoiselle  !" 

"Pas  possible?"  She  stared  at  him  mischiev- 
ously. His  devouring  eyes  answered  the  stare 
with  enthusiasm.  "More  than  twenty-one?  My 
brother  would  have  been  very  nearly  that  age  if 
he  had  lived." 

Robin  pulled  his  chair  a  little  closer. 

"He  died  when  he  was  a  small  chap — didn't 
he?" 

"A  little  baby.  Before  I  was  born.  He  was 
'Miles,'  like  father.  How  I  wish  he  had  lived !" 

He  nodded. 

"It's  good  for  little  girls  to  have  male  rela- 
tives knocking  round." 

"Why— specially?" 

"Because  we're  the  ones  who  take  the  kicks 
of  life,  and  the  little  girls  are  the  ones  to  spend 
the  half-pence !  That's  a  rule  worth  remember- 
ing, and  it  has  been  in  existence,  more  or  less, 
ever  since  the  days  of  the  Garden  of  Eden,  when 
.Eve  learned  that  she  had  made  a  big  mistake  in 
allowing  that  sneaking  old  gardener  to  get  hold 
of  the  apple  while  she  paid  the  price." 

Jessica  Bering  was  profoundly,  almost  nar- 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  151 

rowly,  religious,  but  the  profane  words  brought  a 
smile  to  her  sad  face. 

"Where  did  you  study  theology,  Mr.  Under- 
wood? And  who  taught  you  to  draw  that  par- 
ticular deduction  from  the  story  of  the  fall?" 

Robin  tapped  his  forehead  vigorously. 

"My  gigantic  brain!  Rome  wasn't  built  in  a 
day,  you  know,  and  poor  little  Eve  couldn't  have 
known  how  her  worldly-wise  spouse  would  take 
the  very  natural  episode  of  the  rosy-cheeked 
apple!  But  when  the  big  gates  were  shut — 
when  they  found  themselves  outside — then  she 
knew!  I  haven't  the  least  doubt  but  that  she 
said  to  herself,  lots  of  times — 'Next  time  I'll 
just  nip  a  luscious  bite  out  of  that  nice  apple, 
and  if  any  one  has  to  pay  for  it — let  Adam  see 
to  it!'"  ' 

Isola  broke  into  riotous  laughter. 

"Bravo!  Bravo!  That's  the  right  spirit! 
We're  to  have  everything  that's  nice,  and  you 
are  to  pay  for  the  nice  things — asking  no  ques- 
tions?" 

Robin  leaned  forward  and  rested  his  hands 
resolutely  on  his  knees. 

"Questions  don't  crop  up  between  people  who 
really  understand  each  other.  When  it's  a  case 
of  a  He  and  She — and  after  all  it's  always  such  a 
case — the  He  trusts  the  She,  absolutely ;  and  the 
She  knows  that  the  He  will  take  jolly  good  care 


152  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

that  She  has  all  the  apples  she  wants — without 
money  and  without  price.  It's  the  business  of 
the  He's  of  life  to  spoil  and  protect  the  She's — 
and  to  love  'em  every  minute  of  the  day !" 

The  girl's  color  deepened.  It  was  hard  to 
resist  the  call  of  those  shining  eyes.  She  was 
sure  she  was  not  in  love  with  Robin  Underwood, 
but  somehow  he  always  managed  to  make  her 
realize  that  if  she  had  happened  to  love  him, 
her  path  in  life  would  surely  have  been  scattered 
with  roses. 

She  felt  she  must  change  the  subject.  Rising 
from  her  seat  she  passed  her  fingers  through  the 
bright  waves  of  silky  hair  lying  on  her  forehead. 

"Didn't  you  say  you  particularly  wanted  to  see 
my  favorite  photograph  of  father,  taken  in 
fencing  dress?  Shall  I  fetch  it?" 

Robin  also  rose. 

"If  it  won't  bother  you.  And  please — could 
I  see  your  mother's  portrait,  the  one  your  father 
painted  in  Japan?  As  a  boy  I  often  heard  my 
governor  speak  of  that  picture.  I  don't  know 
where  he  had  seen  it,  but  he  described  it  so 
minutely  that  I  seem  to  know  it  quite  well." 

For  a  second  Isola  hesitated.  Then  she 
nodded  her  head. 

"Of  course,  if  you  like.  It's  too  big  to  move, 
but  if  you  come  into  my  room  you  can  see  it,  and 
father's  photograph  too." 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  153 

They  passed  out  together.  Jessica  Bering 
held  her  breath  as  she  watched  the  two  splendid 
young  figures — so  perfectly  matched. 

If  only  that  might  happen ! 

Hot  tears  forced  themselves  into  her  tired 
eyes.  Had  she  been  unjust  to  the  girl?  Had 
she  misjudged  her?  Was  it  possible  that  she 
had  mistaken  natural  wilfulness  and  ill-placed 
enthusiasm  for  inherited  worldliness? 

Many  times  in  the  last  weeks  she  had  found 
herself  haunted  by  a  great  fear — the  fear  that 
she  had  been  unjust  to  her  brother's  child.  The 
girl  had  been  unfailingly  attentive  and  respect- 
ful to  her;  but  never  once,  since  that  memorable 
night  when  she  herself  had  forbidden  the  subject 
of  the  stage  to  be  discussed,  had  she  spoken  of 
her  chosen  profession. 

From  outside  sources  Miss  Dering  had 
learned  vaguely  that  there  had  been  difficulties. 
Once  or  twice  she  had  been  sorely  tempted  to  ask 
questions.  But  something  in  her  niece's  manner 
— in  the  expression  of  her  dark  eyes — had  driven 
back  the  halting  words. 

In  the  long-ago  days  Jessica  remembered  an 
occasion  on  which  she  had  accused  her  brother, 
then  a  boy,  of  some  fault.  He  had  been  inno- 
cent. She  had  refused  to  accept  his  word. 

She  never  forgot  the  look  in  his  eyes  when  she 
demanded  proofs.  She  seemed  to  see  the  same 


154  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

look    now,  at  times,  in    the  dark  eyes  of    her 
niece. 

He  J)e  *  *  * 

When  Robin  found  himself  in  the  pretty  pink 
and  white  nest  sacred  to  his  beloved  one,  he  was 
attacked  by  a  host  of  different  emotions.  He  felt 
strangely  shy.  And  side  by  side  with  this  shy- 
ness ran  a  wild  desire  to  touch  everything.  A 
dainty  little  white  dressing-gown  lay  across  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  He  wanted  badly  to  take  it 
reverently  in  his  hands  and  to  press  it  against  his 
lips. 

It  was  all  hers!  Everything  in  the  lovely 
little  room  was  in  intimate  touch  with  her.  As 
they  crossed  to  the  place  where  the  beautiful 
portrait  of  a  girl  standing  beside  a  lotus  lake  was 
hanging,  he  brushed  against  the  muslins  of  the 
dressing-table.  Furtively  he  stretched  out  a 
brown  hand  and  laid  it  softly  on  the  ivory 
brushes  which  lay,  face  downwards,  on  a  bed  of 
soft  lace. 

He  tried  not  to  look  at  everything  too  much. 
And  yet  he  wanted  so  badly  to  look.  In  a  way 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  takes  notes,  for  he 
would  have  to  reconstruct  just  such  a  room  over 
there  in  England,  on  the  side  of  the  big  house 
which  gave  on  the  gardens,  where  the  golden 
sun-god  delighted  to  linger!  Yes,  he  must  try 
to  see  everything  without  seeming  to  be  curious. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  155 

He  clasped  his  strong  brown  hands  together  and 
set  his  lips  lest  they  should  form  themselves  into 
burning  words  of  love. 

It  would  be  no  easy  task,  the  winning  of  his 
darling  wife!  She  was  wilful.  And,  at  the 
moment,  she  fancied  she  did  not  love  him. 

But  she  did!  Robin  felt  it  deep  down  in  his 
heart.  Isola  loved  him,  just  a  wee  bit,  already. 
And  before  the  wooing  was  over  she  would  love 
him  with  all  her  heart  and  soul. 

He  was  sure — sure. 

Isola  brought  forward  the  photograph  of  her 
father.  Robin  looked  down  into  the  luminous 
eyes  which  were  so  like  the  eyes  of  his  beloved. 
The  painter  had  been  taken  in  fencing  dress.  The 
tight  jacket  showed  off  his  muscular  figure  to 
perfection.  He  was  smiling.  The  photograph 
had  been  taken  in  the  Salle  d'  Armes  of  a  famous 
fencing-master  in  Rome.  Dering  had  always 
had  a  horror  of  posing  before  a  camera,  but  a 
surprise  had  been  sprung  on  him,  and  he  was 
amused.  It  was  one  of  the  best  pictures  that  had 
ever  been  taken  of  him. 

Robin  looked  at  it  intently. 

"I've  seen  this  before — or  something  very  like 
it.  Auntie  has  one — in  her  dressing-room — but 
it  seems  a  little  different."  He  held  the  picture 
to  the  light  and  stared  down  into  the  splendid 


156  WHAT  IS  LOVE4? 

face.  "Oh — I  see  now.  In  this  your  father  is 
holding  a  mask  in  his  hand.  In  Auntie's  he  has 
a  foil." 

Isola  came  close  to  his  side. 

'  'Auntie'?  Do  you  mean  Princess  Borizoff? 
How  on  earth  did  she  come  to  have  father's 
photograph?" 

Once  again,  just  for  a  second,  Robin  was  con- 
scious that  he  had  blundered.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  pretending  ignorance.  Then  he  pulled 
himself  together.  What  right  had  he  to  suppose 
that  Princess  Borizoff  made  any  mystery  about 
that  particular  photograph?  He  handed  back 
the  silver  frame,  very  carefully. 

"I  fancy — I  don't  really  know — that  Auntie 
knew  your  father  rather  well,  long  ago — in 
Rome.  Of  course  you  know  that  your  father 
and  mine  were  tremendous  chums  and  that  the 
mater  knew  him  very  well,  too.  Auntie  has  never 
said  much  about  him  to  me,  but  I  know  she 
thinks  no  end  of  'Russia.'  I've  heard  her  say 
that  Mr.  Bering  was  one  of  the  greatest  paint- 
ers of  his  century." 

Isola  glowed. 

"I  never  realized  that  she  might  have  known 
Daddy — well.  I  wish " 

The  sentence  ended  in  a  sigh.  Robin  very 
softly  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Please,    please,  don't    be  too  proud  if   she 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  157 

comes  to  see  you — or  asks  you  to  go  and  see  her  1 
Please,  just  for  my  sake,  be  your  own  lovely 
natural  self!  I  do  so  want  her  to  know  how 
delicious  you  are,  and,  really,  she's  one  of  the 
best!  People  say  she's  awfully  haughty  and 
cold,  but  she  isn't,  deep  down.  She's  old  enough 
to  be  your  mother — more  than  that,  but  you're 
really  very  like  her  in  many  things.  You  two 
would  understand  each  other  if  you  had  a 

chance." 

***** 

Later  on  that  evening,  when  Isola  was  alone 
in  her  room,  she  drew  her  favorite  chair  to  the 
window  and  rested  in  it. 

La  Jeune  fille  de  Demain  began  very  late.  It 
was  preceded  by  a  clever  little  one-act  piece, 
which  gave  the  Parisians  time  to  dine  in  peace. 
There  was  still  an  hour  before  she  need  think  of 
dressing. 

It  was  her  habit  to  eat  very  little  before  going 
to  the  theater,  but  there  was  always  a  delicious 
little  supper  ready  for  her  when  she  returned 
with  the  old  servant  who  never  failed  to  accom- 
pany her  to  and  fro. 

She  was  resting.    And  she  was  thinking. 

It  had  been  very  pleasant  that  afternoon  with 
Robin  Underwood.  He  was  a  dear,  charming 
boy. 

There  were  moments  when  she  found  herself 


158  WHAT  IS  LOVE1? 

wishing  that  he  was  her  brother — or  her  cousin 
— or  some  relative  who  had  the  right  to  take  care 
of  her. 

For  she  had  no  doubt  about  Robin's  power  of 
"taking  care"  of  any  one  he  loved ! 

And  he  loved  her. 

It  was  impossible  to  mistake  the  love-light  in 
his  frank  eyes,  impossible  to  mistake  the  caress 
of  his  lightest  touch — even  of  his  manner  in  the 
most  ordinary  circumstances. 

He  seemed  to  surround  her  with  a  cloud  of 
adoration.  At  times  she  enjoyed  the  tumultuous 
atmosphere;  at  times  it  irritated  her.  She 
wanted  Robin  Underwood  to  be  near  at  hand — 
somewhere.  She  did  not  always  want  him 
directly  in  her  presence.  He  adored  her,  even 
her  faults ;  but  she  could  not  shut  her  eyes  to  the 
fact  that  he  knew  these  little  faults  existed. 

She  turned  in  her  chair  restlessly. 

Robin  Underwood  was  delightful.  But  it  was 
not  good  for  her  to  see  much  of  him.  He  had 

heaps  and  heaps  of  splendid  qualities,  but 

Her  color  rose  and  she  felt  rather  mean.  An  an- 
swer to  that  "but"  formed  itself  in  her  brain. 
But — he  was  just  a  little  narrow-minded !  Just  a 
little  too  fond  of  thinking  that  women  should 
be  shut  in  and  protected.  That  it  was  not  good 
for  them  to  strike  out  independently. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  159 

It  was  not  so  much  what  he  had  said  on  this 
subject  as  what  he  had  looked — and  what  she 
knew  he  felt. 

Again  she  made  a  restless,  impatient  gesture. 

Robin  Underwood  was  rather  a  bother ! 

She  found  herself  wishing  she  could  dislike 
him.  But  she  could  not ! 

The  moments  passed. 

Isola  lay  back  in  her  comfortable  chair  and 
gave  liberty  to  her  thoughts. 

It  had  been  a  wonderful,  terrible  time — the 
past  two  weeks !  She  had  suffered  horribly. 
She  had  been  overwhelmed  with  anxiety  and 
disappointment  and  amazement.  Just  at  first 
the  woman  she  adored,  and  feared,  had  been 
furiously  angry  with  her.  On  the  day  after  the 
first  night  of  the  new  piece  there  had  been  a 
violent  scene.  Lery  had  been  present — so  had 
Guy  de  Vesian.  The  girl's  dark  eyes  grew 
suddenly  brilliant  as  she  recalled  the  poet's 
attitude.  He  had  been  so  diplomatic.  In  silence 
he  had  listened  to  Madame  Gerome's  excited 
words — her  incoherent  accusations.  With  clever, 
caustic  wit  he  had  turned  aside  the  dramatist's 
fierce  assaults.  In  some  mysterious  way  he  had 
dominated  the  scene! 

Isola  felt  that  she  could  never,  never  forget 
his  kindness.  He  had  hardly  looked  at  her. 


160  WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

During  the  whole  scene  he  had  not  addressed  her, 
directly.  And  yet  she  knew  he  was  fighting  her 
battle. 

She  suddenly  sat  up  very  straight.  Raising 
her  hands  to  her  hair  she  pushed  it  back  from 
her  forehead.  Her  face  was  flushed  with  ex- 
citement. 

He  was  wonderful,  wonderful — and  oh,  how 
splendid! — the  idol  of  Paris,  the  central  figure 
of  every  assembly  in  which  he  appeared. 

And  he  had  taken  the  trouble  to  be  specially 
kind  to  her. 

He  had  been  interested  in  her  ambitions — in 
her  career. 

Above  all — best  of  all — he  believed  in  her! 

It  seemed  too  wonderful  to  be  true,  and  yet  it 
was  true.  For  had  he  not  said  as  much? 

He  believed  in  her.  And  she  meant  to  show 
him  that  she  was  worthy  of  that  belief.  She 
meant  to  become  a  great  actress — like  Duse,  like 
Bernhardt,  like  Lucienne  Gerome. 

She  must  succeed ! 

She  felt  she  would  rather  die  than  disap- 
point— him. 

De  Vesian's  dreamy  eyes  seemed  to  look  at 
her  through  the  gathering  shadows  of  twilight. 
In  the  silence  of  her  little  room  she  fancied  she 
heard  his  low,  vibrating  voice. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  161 

He  was  so  wonderful ! 

And  so  unconscious — or  so  careless  about  all 
the  dreadful  things  that  were  said  about  him  by 
people  who  did  not  know  him — who  could  never 
understand  his  artistic  nature. 

It  made  her  furious  to  think  of  the  rumors 
that  had  reached  even  her  ears.  He  had  been 
called  cruel,  immoral,  "decadent."  He  was  mis- 
judged. And  he  never  seemed  to  care. 

But  she  cared. 

It  filled  her  with  disgust  to  realize  that  one 
who  had  so  many  magnificent  qualities,  one  who 

had  such  a  heart  of  gold,  was  grossly  maligned. 

***** 

Some  one  knocked  softly  on  the  door.  Isola 
opened  it. 

The  old  servant  who  had  been  constituted  her 
theater  chaperone  stood  outside.  In  her  hands 
she  held  a  loose  cluster  of  white  lilies.  There 
was  something  secretive  in  her  manner  as  she 
handed  them,  quickly,  to  her  young  mistress. 

Isola  took  the  waxen  flowers.  The  old  woman 
shut  the  door  suddenly. 

For  several  minutes  the  girl  stood  quite  still. 
Then  she  softly  crossed  to  her  bed  and  turned  on 
the  electric  light. 

She  was  trembling. 


CHAPTER  IX 

JULES  RIVAUD  was  sitting  in  his  private 

den  at  the  Theatre  Gerome. 

He  was  leaning  over  a  big  table  covered 
with  loose  papers.  His  black  velvet  coat,  worn 
at  the  elbows,  was  thrown  open.  His  "student" 
tie  in  black  silk  was  twisted  into  a  careless  bow 
which  left  his  brown  throat  bare. 

He  was  writing  spasmodically:  now  very 
quickly,  now  with  hesitation.  From  time  to 
time  he  ran  his  restless  eyes  over  the  pages  and 
dotted  certain  letters  with  savage  emphasis. 
Suddenly  he  pushed  his  chair  from  the  table  and 
tilted  it  on  the  back  legs.  His  heavy,  grizzled 
brows  were  knit. 

"It's  a  d d  nuisance,"  he  said,  "a  d d 

nuisance." 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  he  should 
express  himself  in  nervous  English,  since  he  was 
thinking  of  an  English-speaking  nation.  He  was 
cosmopolitan  in  every  sense  of  the  word  and 
master  of  half  a  dozen  languages. 

With  a  gesture  of  impatience  he  leaned  his 

hands  on  the  table  and  swayed  backwards  and 

forwards.    Then  he  brought  his  fist  down  on  the 

papers   with  a  bang.     A   second  later  he   was 

162 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  «  163 

extracting  no  uncertain  sound  from  a  telephone 
bell. 

"Mile.  Bering  is  still  here?  Yes?  Ask  her 
to  come  to  me  for  a  moment." 

With  a  methodical  sweep  of  the  hand  he 
gathered  the  papers  together.  He  took  out  a 
leather  case,  selected  a  big  cigar,  lit  it,  and 
leaned  back.  His  full,  steel-gray  eyes  seemed 
bulging  with  malicious  intelligence.  Something 
of  a  grim  smile  crossed  his  full  lips.  He  ran  the 
fingers  of  his  left  hand  through  his  crisp  hair. 
It  made  a  little  crackling  sound. 

Just  then  the  door  opened  and  Isola  looked  in. 

"You  sent  for  me,  Monsieur  Jules?" 

He  half  rose  and  nodded. 

"Entrez,  Mademoiselle!  I  have  one  or  two 
things  to  say  to  you." 

Isola  closed  the  door  and  came  forward.  She 
was  looking  lovely,  almost  pathetically  youthful, 
in  a  clinging  dress  of  some  soft  white  stuff. 
The  day  was  warm.  There  had  been  a  long  re- 
hearsal of  a  new  piece  which  Rivaud  wanted  for 
the  proposed  tour  in  the  States.  The  girl  was 
tired. 

Rivaud  pointed  to  a  chair  on  the  opposite  side 
of  his  writing-table.  For  several  minutes  he 
sat  and  looked  at  her,  in  silence.  Isola  flushed. 

"Something  has  gone  wrong — again?"     She 


164  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

spoke  fearfully.  The  man  shrugged  his  broad 
shoulders. 

"Chi  lo  sa  ?" 

He  continued  to  stare  at  her,  and  as  he  stared 
he  passed  his  hand  over  his  thick  beard. 

"I  wonder!     I  wonder  very  much!" 

He  stopped  short.  The  girl's  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"Yes?"  she  said  tremulously.  "Something 
about  me?" 

He  nodded. 

"What  is  it?" 

In  a  way  Isola  was  less  afraid  of  Jules  Rivaud 
than  of  any  one  else  intimately  connected  with 
the  theater.  He  had  been  kind  to  her,  in  his 
own  queer,  rough  way.  He  had  given  her  a 
helping  hand  again  and  again  while  seeming  to 
find  fault.  She  had  an  instinctive  feeling  that 
he  liked  her. 

The  hot  tears,  born  of  nervous  tension,  dis- 
appeared. She  smiled  bravely. 

"I  have  done  something  wrong?  Please  tell 
me." 

Rivaud  laughed. 

"Some  one  has  done  something  'wrong,'  but 
I'm  not  sure  that  you're  the  culprit — this  time ! 
Some  one  has  allowed  a  sensitive,  romantic  little 
girl  to  feed  upon  her  imagination !  Now  I  won- 
der who  that  some  one  was  ?  Not  your  father, 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  165 

that  I  know,  since  he  died  when  you  were  a  baby. 
Not  your  mother — certainly  not  your  little  Pur- 
itan aunt.  Who — then?" 

"Feed  upon  my  imagination?" 

"Yes!" 

"You  mean?" 

The  girl  was  leaning  forward  over  the  table. 
Her  breath  was  uneven.  The  flush  was  mount- 
ing higher  and  higher. 

"You  mean?"  she  repeated. 

"I  mean  that  I  should  very  much  like  to  know 
what  influence  turned  your  attention  to  the  stage 
— as  a  profession ;  what,  exactly,  made  you  think 
of  becoming  an  actress." 

"Madame  Bernhardt !  I  saw  her  play  in 
'Adrienne',  in  Vienna — four  years  ago.  From 
that  moment  I  knew  that  there  was  just  one 
thing  in  the  world  for  me " 

"The  stage — here  in  Paris?" 

Rivaud  puffed  out  a  great  cloud  of  smoke. 
His  lips  curled  back  from  his  extraordinarily 
white  teeth.  It  was  more  like  the  snarl  of  a  lion 
than  a  human  laugh,  but  the  girl  knew  he  did  not 
mean  to  be  unkind.  She  looked  down  on  her 
clasped  hands. 

"I  never  thought  of  any  other  stage." 

"I  see.  And  because  Bernhardt  played 
Adrienne  effectively  you  imagined  that  you,  in 
turn,  could  do  likewise — eh?" 


166  WHAT  IS  LOVE  <? 

"Monsieur  Jules!" 

She  looked  very  young  and  helpless,  but  the 
manager  only  laughed  again. 

"Well — wasn't  that  about  it?  Didn't  you  run 
away  home  and  learn  to  speak  Adrienne's 
words?  Didn't  you  posture  and  prance  before 
a  looking-glass  ?  Didn't  you  die  many  deaths — 
in  many  different  attitudes — each  one  more 
pathetic  than  the  last?  Come  now,  didn't  you 
do  just  that,  a  peu  pres?" 

She  managed  to  smile. 

"Yes.     I  think  so,  more  or  less." 

"Of  course.  And  it  was  natural.  You  saw 
fine  results  and  you  envied  them.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  you  to  sit  down  and  think  out  just  how 
these  results  had  been  obtained?" 

"Of  course  I  always  knew  it  meant  a  life's 
study — all  one's  life." 

She  spoke  quickly  and  with  decision.  She 
could  not  bear  that  he,  of  all  men,  should  sup- 
pose she  had  dashed  into  a  profession  without 
thought.  Rivaud  did  not  seem  impressed.  He 
continued  to  smoke  vigorously. 

After  a  silence,  exquisitely  painful  to  the  girl, 
she  mustered  up  courage. 

"Monsieur  Jules — please  be  quite  frank  with 
me.  You  know  everything.  Have  I  improved  ? 
Am  I  really  making  progress  ?  Can  I  succeed — 
in  the  end " 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  167 

The  words  came  out  in  a  rush.  Many,  many 
times  the  girl  had  longed  for  courage,  or  oppor- 
tunity, to  speak  them.  She  so  longed  to  know 
the  truth ;  and  yet  she  feared  it.  Rivaud  looked 
at  her  steadily. 

"You  want  to  know  if  I  think  you're  likely  to 
make  a  success  on  the  French  stage?  My  dear 
young  lady,  that's  a  question  which  I  have  put  to 
myself  pretty  often,  lately.  You've  puzzled  me. 
That's  why  I  sent  for  you  to-day." 

"Puzzled  you?" 

"Yes!  Just  at  first  I  thought  of  you  as  a 
pretty  girl  with  some  talent,  who  might  be  made 
useful  for  a  time  and  who  would  certainly  chuck 
it  all  up,  as  they  say  in  England,  and  marry. 
Now  I  begin  to  have  doubts.  I  think  you  imagine 
you  have  found  a  vocation — really  imagine  it. 
I  think  you  have  it  in  your  mind  to  stick  to  the 
work." 

"But  of  course!" 

Isola  spoke  indignantly:  almost  violently. 
Rivaud  waved  his  hand. 

"Don't  get  excited.  We've  thrown  the  cards 
down  on  the  table  and  we're  going  to  examine 
their  faces !  You  want  to  make  a  big  success  on 
the  French  stage.  Are  you  prepared  to  make 
big,  very  big,  sacrifices?  Are  you  prepared  to 
give  up  your  friends,  pretty  well  all  of  them? 
Are  you  prepared  to  trample  on  the  traditions 


168  WHAT  IS  LOVE  "? 

which  have  surrounded  you  all  your  life?  Are 
you  prepared  to  put  your  art  before  public  opin- 
ion, before  the  teachings  of  your  religion?  Do 
you  realize  that  on  our  stage  an  actress  belongs, 
body  and  soul,  to  the  public  ?  She  may  be  idol- 
ized, spoiled,  pelted  with  roses  and  pearls — 
what  you  will :  but  none  the  less  she  is  the  chattel 
of  the  public.  It's  her  business  to  give  that  pub- 
lic a  thousand  varied  emotions.  She  must  make 
it  realize  love  and  hate  and  jealousy  and  fury 
and  despair.  And  before  she  can  make 
her  public  realize  any  one  of  these  emotions  she 
must  realize  them  herself.  In  France  we  are 
obsessed  by  one  special  body  of  emotions — those 
which  frame  our  god  'Amour!'  Without  an  in- 
timate knowledge — a  personal  knowledge — of 
the  various  conjugations  of  the  verb  'Aimer'  no 
actress  could  hope  to  make  anything  of  a  success 
in  this  country.  And  what  do  you  know  of  this 
verb,  my  pretty  little  sentimentalist  ?  What  are 
you  ever  likely  to  know  of  it — beyond  the  love 
of  Juliet?  Perhaps  of  Adrienne — in  certain 
moods?  But  there  were  sides  to  Adrienne 
Lecouvreur's  character  that  would  always  re- 
main mysteries  to  you.  You  might,  probably 
would,  succeed  if  special  roles  were  written  for 
you,  but  we  don't  run  our  theaters  on  those  lines 
in  Paris.  The  player  must  adapt  himself,  or 
herself,  to  the  play — not  the  other  way  about* 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  «  169 

We  aren't  a  very  moral  nation,  but  we  have  our 
own  ideas  about  Art,  and  we're  thoroughly  con- 
servative where  they're  concerned.  You  mustn't 
depend  on  having  plays  written  round  your 
charming,  I  admit,  personality.  You  must  be 
prepared  to  mould  that  personality  into  the 
shape  demanded  by  the  play — no  matter  what 
that  shape  may  be!" 

He  laughed  roughly  and  leaned  back.  There 
were  a  hundred  and  one  things  he  wanted  to  say 
to  this  girl,  but  something  in  her  eyes  made  him 
hesitate. 

She  was  an  extraordinary  mixture!  Full  of 
emotion,  warm  and  passionate,  yet  curiously, 
wonderfully  fresh. 

He  threw  away  the  stump  of  his  cigar  and 
lighted  another. 

Isola  watched  him.  Her  heart  was  throbbing 
furiously.  Was  he  going  to  say  that  she  had  no 
real  talent? 

There  was  silence.  Then  Rivaud  leaned  for- 
ward and  patted  one  of  her  little  white  hands. 

"I  never  had  a  daughter,  but  if  I  had  one  like 
you,  do  you  know  what  I  should  say  to  her?" 
He  stared  into  her  frightened  eyes  and  laughed 
softly.  "I  should  say:  'Run  away,  my  dear 
little  girl,  and  get  married !  Get  married  to  some 
big,  strong,  young  fellow  who  has  plenty  of 
money  and  who  will  take  good  care  of  you  all 


iyo  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

the  days  of  your  life!'  And  deep  down  in  my 
gizzard  I  should  pray  that  the  young  man  might 
be  either  an  Englishman  or  an  American!" 

He  spoke  in  much  solemnity.  Isola  suddenly 
broke  into  laughter. 

"I  don't  want  to  marry — just  yet,  Monsieur 
Jules!  And  when  I  do  marry  I  don't  think  it 
will  be  an  Englishman  or  even  an  American !" 

"Frenchmen  of  good  position  don't  marry 
actresses — never  overlook  that  fact.  And  shall  I 
tell  you  why?" 

He  paused  a  single  second.  Then  the  tempta- 
tion to  cut  down  deep  overcame  him. 

"Because  not  one  Frenchman  in  a  thousand 
would  believe  that  an  actress  was  the  kind  of 
woman  he  could  make  his  wife — introduce  to  his 
family!" 

"Monsieur  Jules !" 

His  laugh  was  not  pleasant. 

"Quite  true,  I  assure  you.  We  pelt  our  pretty 
players  with  pearls  but  we  don't  marry  them! 
And  our  society  women  don't  receive  them,  ex- 
cept as  paid  entertainers !  Perhaps  it  isn't  quite 
fair,  but  it's  a  fact." 

"Why  are  you  saying  all  this  to  me — now?" 
Tears  stood  in  the  girl's  eyes,  but  she  made  no 
attempt  to  brush  them  aside.  She  was  beyond 
caring  for  such  trifles. 

"Because  you  seem  curiously  alone,  for  a  girl 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  171 

who  has  the  right  to  go  into  society.  I  don't 
know  how  it  has  happened,  but  it  seems  to  me 
you've  no  one  to  give  a  word  of  sound  advice. 
It's  not  my  business,  but  all  the  same  I  don't  like 
to  see  a  small  fish  sailing  calmly  into  a  net — 
without  knowing  that  the  net  is  in  existence." 

"'A  net'?" 

It  was  clear  that  she  was  bewildered.  Rivaud 
smothered  an  oath. 

"Yes !  You're  an  attractive  little  creature.  I 
don't  say  that  an  experience — a  whole  series  of 
experiences  if  it  comes  to  that — mightn't  make 
a  capable  actress  of  you,  but  I  don't  think  you'd 
come  out  of  the  tangle  a  happy  young  woman! 
You're  not  the  type  for  such  experiences,  petite. 
You're  incurably  romantic  and  you're  sensitive. 
And  then — you're  your  father's  daughter!  I 
never  saw  much  of  him,  but  I  knew  his  uncle 
fairly  well,  and  many  an  evening  I  spent  at  your 
flat  in  the  Rue  de  Douai  in  the  old  days.  You 
come  of  the  wrong  stock  for  success  on  our  stage, 
and  that's  why  I  advise  you  to  'chuck  it'  and  to 
marry — that  fine  young  Englishman  or  Ameri- 
can I  mentioned  a  moment  ago.  Success  would 
cost  you  too  much.  You  wouldn't  find  it  worth 
while." 

Isola  looked  at  him  intently.  Her  eyes  were 
very  bright.  Two  red  spots  burned  in  her 
cheeks. 


172  WHAT  IS  LOVE  <? 

"You  think  I  am  bound  to  be  a  failure?  You 
don't  believe  in  me?  But  Monsieur  de  Vesian 
does.  He  thinks  I  have  real  talent — he  has  told 
me  so.  He  thinks  that  in  time  I  may  become 
quite  celebrated " 

"De  Vesian  bed d!" 

Rivaud  spoke  roughly.  He  felt  curiously 
angry  with  himself  for  having  been  such  a  fool 
as  to  play  the  part  of  bon  Papa  to  a  wilful  girl. 

With  de  Vesian  for ? 

Almost  rudely  he  leaned  forward  and  took  up 
his  papers. 

"Never  mind.  You'll  have  to  learn  your  les- 
son by  yourself.  That's  the  rule  of  life  and 
it's  no  use  bringing  about  exceptions.  You  want 
to  be  a  'great  actress'?  Well,  you'll  have  to 
work  pretty  hard  and  you'll  have  to  offer  up 
sacrifices  at  the  shrine  of  the  god  of  the  French- 
man !  I've  given  you  a  pretty  broad  hint — take 
it  or  leave  it." 

He  took  up  his  pen  as  if  to  show  that  the 
interview  was  ended,  but  Isola  was  too  excited 
to  be  diplomatic.  With  a  little  rush  she  came  to 
his  side. 

"Monsieur  Jules!  Monsieur  Jules — please 
don't  be  angry  with  me.  Indeed,  I'm  more  than 
grateful  for  all  your  kindness,  but  I  don't  quite 
know  what  you  mean.  Surely  Monsieur  de 
Vesian  is  a  judge?  And  what  object  could  he 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  173 

have  had  in  saying  anything  that  was  not  true — 
tome?" 

The  big  man  sat  square  in  his  chair  and  stared 
at  her.  For  a  full  minute  his  keen  eyes  ques- 
tioned hers.  Then  he  smiled. 

"Our  famous  poet  is  an  excellent  judge — of 
beauty !  He  also  knows  something  of  good  act- 
ing. At  the  same  time  I'm  of  opinion  that  my 
advice,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  is  of  more 
value  than  his,  and  my  advice  is — chuck  it  and 
marry,  right  now !  You're  pretty  and  clever,  but 
the  Theatre  Gerome  won't  shut  its  doors  on  your 
wedding-day.  We  could  do  without  you  if  we 
tried!  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  you  could  do 
without  the  right  to — make  a  curtsy  to  royalty, 
shall  we  say?" 

He  was  smiling  grimly,  but  his  manner  was 
very  kindly.  Isola  stretched  out  her  hand  and 
touched  his  arm. 

"I  don't  want  to  marry,  Monsieur  Jules.  And 
I  do  want  to  become  a  real,  real  artist.  Won't 
you  help  me?  Indeed  I'll  work  hard.  I'll  do 
everything  you  and  Madame  Lucienne  tell  me 
— you  won't  find  me  a  bit  of  trouble.  Please 
help  me." 

Jules  Rivaud  was  a  man  who  had  the  charac- 
ter of  being  absolutely  without  scruples  where 
business  was  concerned.  He  was  honest,  as  men 
of  business  count  honesty,  but  he  never  let  senti- 


174  WHAT  IS  LOVE  * 

ment  stand  in  his  way.  He  was  "hard  as  nails," 
yet,  at  that  moment,  he  was  touched.  The 
thought  of  making  a  second  Lucienne  Gerome, 
without  Gerome's  genius,  of  this  little  girl  dis- 
gusted him. 

Gerome  had  risen  from  the  gutter.  She  had 
had  nothing  to  lose,  everything  to  gain.  This 
child  had  much  to  lose. 

He  knew  a  good  deal  about  her  parentage, 
her  possible  friends,  about  Robin  Underwood! 
She  had  very  much  to  lose — and  for  what  ?  Dis- 
illusion— for  of  a  certainty  she  still  cherished 
impossible,  highly  romantic  ideas  about  life  on 
the  stage — disillusion,  and  worse. 

For  there  was  Guy  de  Vesian,  and  behind  de 
Vesian — Lucienne  Gerome,  deserted,  frantic, 
eager  for  revenge. 


There  was  silence. 

Then  Rivaud  spoke  again. 

"Make  an  opportunity  of  asking  Lucienne 
Gerome  what  she  thinks  about  your  chances. 
Get  her  to  advise  you,  if  she  will.  She  has  been 
through  the  mill.  Half  a  dozen  words  from  her 
would  be  more  useful  to  you  than  a  volume  of 
poems  by  our  friend  de  Vesian." 

His  heavy  eyebrows  had  a  trick  of  running  up 
at  the  outer  corners  when  he  was  amused.  They 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  17$ 

did  so  now.  And  yet  there  was  something  of 
apprehension  in  the  eyes  themselves. 

"Hard  as  nails." 

Yes,  that  was  true.  All  the  same  he  wished 
the  dark-eyed  girl's  father  was  still  alive.  It 
was  a  beastly  world  for  young  things  of  her  type. 
He  had  been  a  fool  to  undertake  the  thankless 
role  of  bon  Papa.  Old  age  must  be  creeping  on ! 

He  knew  the  girl  was  looking  at  him  in  eager 
question,  but  he  pretended  to  be  busy  with  his 
letters. 

A  second  later  she  went  out  very  quietly. 


CHAPTER  X 

OEVERAL  days  had  passed,  but  Isola  had 
O  not  found  the  opportunity  for  asking  Lu- 
cienne  Gerome's  advice,  as  she  half  wished,  half 
feared,  to  do. 

She  had  seen  the  actress  each  morning,  and — 
of  course — each  evening;  but  somehow,  Isola 
felt  it  was  intentional,  they  were  never  alone 
together,  they  always  seemed  surrounded  by  a 
restless  crowd.  Never  had  the  great  artist  been 
more  irritable — more  exacting — more,  at  times, 
violent. 

The  atmosphere  at  the  Theatre  Gerome 
teemed  with  germs  of  unrest.  The  girl's  nerves 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  raw. 

Once,  in  speaking  to  Robin  Underwood,  she 
compared  them  to  her  arm  at  the  moment  of  the 
second  vaccination,  a  few  years  before. 

"One  felt  that  if  the  doctor  touched  that  par- 
ticular spot  just  once  more  one  would  have  to 
scream !" 

And  Robin  had  understood. 

Love  had  done  wonderful  things  for  the  boy. 
It  had  given  him  an  amazing  supply  of  patience, 
and  it  had  given  him,  to  a  marked  degree,  the 
priceless  gift  of  understanding. 
176 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  177 

Again  and  again  Isola  had  unconsciously 
turned  to  him  for  sympathy,  silent  or  spoken: 
and  the  marvel  of  it  was  that  the  boy  found  it 
possible  to  give  that  sympathy  in  abundance 
without  betraying  too  much  of  his  warmer  feel- 
ings. 

He  had  entered  into  partnership  with  the 
small  blind  god,  and  Cupid,  in  serious  mood,  had 
taught  him  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent.  It  was  to 
be  a  waiting  game.  Very  well — she  should  see 

that  he  knew  how  to  wait. 

***** 

Several  times  Isola  and  her  aunt  had  been 
whirled  away  to  the  Bois  in  Robin's  big  red 
Daimler,  and  had  had  tea  in  one  of  the  shady 
restaurants  in  the  heart  of  the  wood. 

Delicious  afternoons. 

Free  from  anxiety  or  care,  free  from  any  ele- 
ment that  might  induce  discontent,  Isola  had 
thoroughly  enjoyed  them.  And  the  little  quiet 
aunt?  It  seemed  to  the  girl  that  this  was  a  new- 
born aunt — some  one  who  was  almost  a  stranger 
to  her,  but  who  seemed  on  the  best  of  terms  with 
Robin.  It  was  a  sort  of  wonderful  transforma- 
tion. She  often  found  herself  furtively  study- 
ing the  slender,  fragile  figure  in  soft  grey  cash- 
mere; the  pretty,  silky  hair,  so  demurely  drawn 
back  from  the  face ;  the  pathetic  blue  eyes  set  in 


178  WHAT  IS  LOVE  <? 

fringes  of  black  lashes.  It  was  Aunt  Jessica; 
but — a  happy  Aunt  Jessica. 

Isola  felt  a  little  flush  of  shame  mounting  to 
her  cheeks  when  she  remembered  that  she  had 
brought  very  little  real  happiness  into  that 
lonely  life. 

Mrs.  Underwood  had  gone  to  Deauville  for  a 
week  with  Princess  Borizoff.  It  was  the  dead 
season  at  that  gay  little  plage,  but  the  Princess 
was  fond  of  the  sea,  and  she  preferred  it  when  it 
was  not  cumbered  with  modern  mermaids  in 
startling  suits  composed  of  a  yard  or  two  of  red 
or  white  taffetas. 

Robin  had  elected  to  remain  on  at  the  Con- 
tinental, and  his  mother  had  fallen  in  with  his 
wishes,  since  it  would  have  been  ridiculous  to  do 
otherwise.  She  had  a  vague  suspicion  that  her 
old  friend  Gabrielle  Borizoff  was,  in  some  way, 
"backing  up"  her  boy.  And  yet  the  Princess 
had  never  mentioned  Isola  Dering  since  that  one 
memorable  conversation  in  the  salon  overlooking 
the  rose-framed  terrace. 

Mrs.  Underwood  felt  restless  and  irritable. 
The  thought  of  a  quiet  week  at  the  sea  appealed 
to  her. 

That  particular  afternoon  the  tooting  of 
Robin's  motor-horn  in  the  Rue  de  Douai  reached 
Jessica  Bering's  ears  through  folds  of  fine  linen 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  179 

saturated  with  eau  de  Cologne.  She  was  lying 
down  in  her  room;  her  head  was  aching  vio- 
lently. 

A  moment  later  Isola  came  in  on  tip-toe.  She 
approached  the  little  white  bed. 

"It's  Robin  Underwood,  Aunt  Jessica.  Shall 
I  tell  him  to  go?" 

Miss  Bering  raised  her  head  a  little.  She 
looked  up  straight  into  her  niece's  face,  and 
noted  that  the  girl  was  pale — that  she  seemed 
nervous.  She  smiled  as  she  sank  back. 

"He  wanted  us  to  go  out?  Well — why  not 
go  with  him  for  an  hour  or  two  ?  It  would  do 
you  good.  He's  such  a  dear,  nice  boy.  I  don't 
like  to  disappoint  him." 

Isola  hesitated.    Then  she  nodded  her  head. 

"Very  well,  Aunt — if  you  really  wish  it." 
Again  she  paused.  Then  she  bent  over  the  pros- 
trate figure  and  renewed  the  eau  de  Cologne 
bandage.  Her  touch  was  very  gentle.  Miss 
Bering  raised  her  hand  and  touched  the  girl's 
lovely  face.  For  a  second  two  pairs  of  eyes 
questioned  each  other.  Isola  bent  lower  and 
kissed  her. 

"We  won't  be  long.  He  talks  of  tea  at 
Armenonville,  but — I  don't  know.  We'll  see!" 

Miss  Bering  made  a  gesture  of  assent  as  she 
turned  on  her  pillow  and  closed  her  eyes.  Her 
lips  moved.  She  was  praying. 


i8o  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

***** 

The  first  week  in  June! 

The  Bois  de  Boulogne  was  dressed  in  its  best. 

It  was  too  early  in  the  summer  season  for  the 
trees  to  have  lost  their  young-green  charm.  The 
grass  was  like  a  carpet  of  emerald  velvet.  In  the 
broad  avenues  brilliant  rays  of  sunlight  were 
breaking  through  interlaced  branches  and  cast- 
ing mysterious  designs,  vaguely  Japanese,  on  the 
dry  earth.  The  air  seemed  filled  with  warmth 
and  perfume.  The  sky  was  clear — a  great,  calm 
dome  of  illimitable  blue. 

Serenity  reigned. 

While  the  big  red  car  was  silently  whirling 
through  the  streets — down  the  Rue  Blanche — 
the  historic  Chaussee  d'  Antin — the  Avenue  de 
1'Opera — and  on,  on  through  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  and  Champs  Elysees,  Isola  had  been 
strangely  silent. 

Robin  also  had  been  silent. 

But  the  silence  of  the  boy  bore  no  relationship 
to  the  silence  of  the  girl.  The  little  cunning 
spirit  of  speech  had  tentatively  visited  Isola  and 
had  been  repulsed — because  she  was  restless  and 
unhappy. 

It  had  been  repulsed  by  Robin  because  he  was 
gloriously,  tumultuously  happy. 

She  was  there  close  beside  him — his  Queen  of 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  181 

Queens — his  pearl  of  great  price — his  beloved. 
She  was  close  beside  him,  and  they  had  a  long 
afternoon  before  them! 

He  was  trying  very  hard  to  be  immensely 
discreet;  to  avoid  the  slightest  word  that  might 
put  her  on  her  guard;  to  talk  carelessly  on  gen- 
eral subjects.  And  so,  with  deep  craft,  to  set 
a  trap  into  which  she  might — oh,  heavenly 
thought — wander,  later  on. 

He  was  bubbling  over  with  fun  and  high 
spirits.  He  talked  incessantly.  Now  and  then 
he  deliberately  looked  out  at  the  flying  houses 
and  trees,  for  fear  that  she  might  see,  and  un- 
derstand, the  blaze  of  love-light  in  his  eyes. 

Quite  openly  he  had  instructed  the  chauffeur 
— a  well-trained  servant,  who  had  been  in  his 
father's  service — to  "make  a  little  tour  of  the 
Bois"  before  pulling  up  at  Armenonville.  And 
Isola  had  silently  acquiesced.  It  was  a  relief  to 
her  to  fly  swiftly  through  the  soft  air.  Robin's 
ceaseless  flow  of  words  gave  her  an  excuse  for 
silence. 

The  chauffeur  chose  the  route  which  led  past 
the  racecourse  of  Auteuil.  When  they  were  at 
Boulogne  sur  Seine  Robin  turned  to  his  compan- 
ion almost  abruptly. 

"Shall  we  get  out  and  walk  a  little?    It's  nice 


182  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

and  quiet  just  here.  We  have  lots  or  time  be- 
fore tea." 

Isola  had  been  dreaming.  She  looked  at  him 
with  startled  eyes.  Then  she  nodded  and 
laughed. 

"I  should  like  it,"  she  said. 

That  corner  of  the  Bois  was  comparatively 
deserted.  Spreading  branches  of  rugged  trees 
shaded  the  paths  through  the  wood.  Here  and 
there  one  came  on  sweet  wild  glades  filled  with 
sun-flecked  shadows.  Near  the  fortifications 
there  were  emerald  slopes  which  still  retained 
their  spring  mantles.  It  was  a  glorious  after- 
noon. Nature  seemed  to  smile  upon  her  handi- 
work; and  it  was  a  smile  of  contentment. 

They  strolled  along  slowly.  For  some  time 
neither  spoke.  Now  and  then  Robin  stole  a 
furtive  glance  at  the  girl's  face.  It  seemed  to' 
him  that  never,  even  in  the  longest  life,  could  he 
cease  to  marvel  at  its  loveliness.  She  was  full  of 
radiance.  She  was  like  a  tall  lily.  Or  was  she 
not  more  like  a  perfect  white  rose,  unfolding  its 
mysterious  petals  under  the  caresses  of  an  ardent 
sun  ?  Lily — or  rose — she  was  exquisite !  far, 
far  more  than  exquisite.  She  was  overwhelm- 
ingly lovable. 

A  flight  of  little  blue  butterflies  brushed  past 
the  girl's  face.  She  stood  still  to  give  the  tur- 
quoise marvels  passage.  One  of  them  landed 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  183 

lightly  on  her  arm — quivered  its  wings — and 
then  hastened  after  its  comrades.  Isola  looked 
after  it,  laughing  softly. 

"Don't  you  envy  them?  More  beautiful  than 
any  human  creature  on  this  earth — and  free ! 
free  as  the  air!" 

The  boy  drew  a  little  nearer. 

"You  set  such  a  high  value  on  freedom?" 

"Of  course !  Nothing  really  matters  if  one  is 
free.  Nothing  has  any  real  value  if  one  is  in  a 
cage." 

"In  a  cage?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  something  defiant  in  her  voice. 
Robin  looked  straight  before  him. 

"I  wonder  what  you  mean  when  you  speak  of 
being  'free'  ?  What  do  you  mean,  deep  down  in 
your  heart?" 

He  was  not  looking  at  her,  but  Isola  knew 
there  was  an  anxious  expression  in  his  eyes.  She 
threw  back  her  head  defiantly. 

"I  think  every  woman  ought  to  be  allowed  the 
freedom  of  a  man — to  take  or  leave  as  she 
thought  best.  I've  never  been  able  to  understand 
why  we,  girls  and  women,  are  treated  as  slaves, 
why  we  have  to  fight  for  our  freedom,  and  why 
we  are  blamed  if  we  do  fight." 

There  was  a  tinge  of  hot  color  in  her  cheeks. 


184  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

She  was  getting  excited.  Robin  looked  straight 
into  her  eyes. 

"Slaves?  I  like  that!  And  what  about  us? 
Aren't  we  your  abject,  willing  slaves?  Aren't  we 
ready  to  fetch  and  carry  and  to  submit  to  a 
thousand  and  one  delightful  caprices? — fem- 
inine caprices,  Mademoiselle — please  remember 
that!" 

He  looked  so  comically  distressed  that  Isola 
had  to  laugh.  She  opened  her  white  silk  parasol 
and  held  it  so  that  soft  shadows  fell  on  her  face. 

"Oh — oh — that's  beside  the  question.  You 
men  are  slaves,  of  a  sort,  when  you're  in  love. 
That's  to  say,  when  you're  very  much  in  love !" 

"Well?" 

She  laughed  maliciously. 

"  'Well?'  When  you're  not  in  love  you 
aren't  slaves !  That  problem  isn't  very  compli- 
cated." 

"I  think  it's  a  jolly  lot  more  complicated  than 
you  make  out.  And  it  isn't  a  question  of  slavery 
at  all.  It's  a  question  of  Love!" 

"  'Love'  ?"  She  glanced  at  him  through 
lowered  lashes.  "What  is  Love?  That's  a 
difficult  question  if  you  like !  So  difficult  that  I 
very  much  doubt  if  Monsieur  Robin  Underwood 
could  answer  it — satisfactorily!" 

He  pulled  up  suddenly.  Isola  found  herself 
forced  to  stand  still. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  185 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  Robin 
said: 

"You're  a  queer  girl.  You  said  the  other  day 
you  didn't  want  us  to  discuss  intimate  subjects, 
and  now  you  ask  me  about  Love!  All  right! 
You've  started  the  subject,  and  this  time  we'll 
talk  it  out.  You  ask  me  'What  is  Love?'  I 
heard  one  of  the  big  French  painters  say,  the 
other  day  in  Auntie's  salon,  that  'Love  is  the 
soul  of  life,'  and  that's  about  the  truth.  At  any 
rate,  it's  the  thing  that  makes  life  worth  living, 
and  would  make  dying  a  sort  of  joke,  since  Love 
goes  on  living  on  the  other  side  of  the  Valley. 
Love  is  just  the  one  thing  worth  while — the 
thing  that  makes  a  man  worship  and  adore  a 
woman  when  she's  no  longer  beautiful  to  out- 
siders, that  makes  him  cling  to  her  and  want 
her  when  she's  no  longer  young — when  silly  fools 
who  only  care  for  bright  eyes  and  pink  cheeks 
don't  trouble  to  look  at  her  any  more.  Love  is 
what  a  man  feels  for  his  mate,  and  what  a 
woman  feels  for  her  mate.  It's  a  mysterious, 
glorious  thing  that  has  a  body  and  a  soul  and 
plenty  of  intelligence.  It's  no  more  blind  than 
I'm  blind.  It  sees  faults,  if  faults  exist,  but  it 
loves  them  all  the  time." 

He  was  breathless.  His  face  was  radiant  with 
excitement  and  hope.  Unconsciously  he  came 


186  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

close  to  the  girl's  side,  and  laid  his  hand  on  her 
arm.  Isola  drew  back. 

"How  romantic  you  are!  And  how  impossibly 
sentimental !  Who  taught  you  all  that  nonsense 
about  Love  ?  Are  the  good  folks  of  Devonshire 
as  primitive  as  all  that?" 

She  was  laughing,  but  the  color  on  her  cheeks 
had  deepened.  Robin  devoured  her  with  glow- 
ing eyes. 

"  'Primitive'  be  hanged !  I  beg  your  pardon, 
but  really  you're  very  irritating.  And  you  do  it 
on  purpose  to  get  my  temper  up."  He  stopped 
short.  Then  he  laughed.  "I  say — don't  let  us 
talk  nonsense — let  us  talk  about  ourselves.  I 
believe  in  Love,  and  I'm  proud  of  my  belief. 
You  believe  in  it,  but  you  pretend  you  don't. 
That's  the  difference  between  us.  But  whether 
you  admit  your  belief  or  not,  you  know  very  well 
that  real  Love  is  a  special  gift  of  the  Almighty, 
and  that  when  the  fire  of  Love  is  set  alight  be- 
tween two  souls,  the  little  flames  stretching  out 
and  touching  both,  no  power  in  Heaven  or  on 
earth  can  extinguish  that  fire.  You  know  it, 
Isola !  You  know  it  better  than  you  know  any- 
thing else.  You  know  that  I  shall  love  and 
worship  and  adore  you  until  the  day  when  you 
close  my  eyes  in  death — or  I  close  yours.  We 
two  were  made  for  each  other.  And  we  two 
are  going  to  live  our  lives  together — no  matter 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  187 

what  you  may  say  or  think,  now.  It's  certain — 
absolutely  certain.  I  love  you — every  bit  of 
you — your  mouth,  your  hair,  your  dear,  mis- 
chievous eyes.  I'm  your  man,  your  mate,  your 
husband,  your  slave,  if  you  will.  It  was  all 
settled  before  we  ever  set  eyes  on  each  other. 
We  are  powerless.  You  want  to  gain  time — all 
right.  I  can  wait.  But  mind  you,  I  am  waiting 
all  the  time.  And  I  shall  go  on  waiting  until 
you  come  to  see  that  you  can't  get  on  very  well 
without  me — until  you  want  me  as  I  want  you." 

"Oh— please  don't." 

She  was  really  distressed.  In  a  second  Robin's 
face  changed.  He  became  penitent. 

"Look  here — I'm  awfully  sorry.  Never  mind 
what  I've  been  saying.  Don't  let  it  worry  you. 
I  can  wait.  Only,  sometimes — it  seems  pretty 
hard." 

He  walked  on  rapidly  a  few  steps.  Isola 
looked  after  him.  She  hated  to  hurt  him,  and 
yet — it  was  impossible! 

They  had  reached  a  point  where  two  long 
paths  crossed.  She  stood  still  under  the  shadow 
of  a  drooping  willow. 

Robin  turned  and  looked  at  her.  Then  very 
quickly  he  retraced  his  steps. 

"Isola  !"  He  caught  her  hands  and  held  them 
against  his  breast.  "Haven't  you  found  out  the 
truth — yet  ?  Haven't  you  realized  that  you  love 


i88  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

me?  That  you,  the  very  real  and  loveliest  you, 
want  me  to  hold  you  in  my  arms  and  to  take  care 
of  you — all  the  rest  of  our  lives  ?  Don't  you  feel 
that — yet?" 

There  was  so  much  anxiety,  so  much  yearning 
in  his  voice  that  she  felt  conscience-stricken. 
For  a  second  she  hesitated.  He  was  delightful. 
She  felt  quite  safe  when  she  was  with  him.  A 
delicious  veil  of  color  fell  on  her  creamy  cheeks. 

Robin  held  his  breath. 

In  that  golden  silence  mysterious  sounds  of 
life,  amongst  the  emerald  grasses,  made  them- 
selves felt.  Far  up  in  the  shadowy  branches 
some  birds  were  chirping  gaily. 

It  was  a  deserted  corner  of  the  great  Bois. 
They  were  alone. 

Hope  began  to  unfold  its  silvery  wings.  The 
boy's  heart  was  beating  wildly. 

One  of  his  brown  hands  stole  out  and  cap- 
tured a  little  white  prisoner. 

"Isola!" 

The  spell  was  broken.  Very  quietly,  but  with 
intention,  she  withdrew  her  hand. 

"No.  No — really  I  don't  feel  like  that.  I 
like  you  ever  so  much,  but  love?  No." 

His  strong  young  face  grew  suddenly  white. 
A  miserable,  baffled  look  flashed  into  his  blue 
eyes.  For  a  second  he  seemed  beaten. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  189 

Then  the  old  supreme  confidence  stole  back 
into  face  and  manner. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "Please  forgive  me. 
I  really  didn't  mean  to  worry  you  to-day,  but — 
you're  so  lovely — you  tempted  me !  A  case  of 
a  modern  Adam  and  Eve  in  a  1912  Garden 
of  Eden,  you  know!"  He  laughed  rather 
nervously.  Isola  looked  at  him. 

"I  am  sorry — really,  but  I  can't  help  it.  You 
wanted  me  to  speak  the  truth — didn't  you?" 

"Rather !  And  it  doesn't  really  matter — I  can 
wait.  I  can  go  on  waiting  like  that  chap  in  the 
Bible,  but  I'm  hanged  if  I'll  have  the  wrong 
woman  handed  over  to  me  in  the  end — as  he 
had." 

He  was  trying  to  speak  carelessly,  but  Isola 
felt  the  restraint  in  his  voice.  Her  color 
deepened. 

"Please  don't  talk  of  'waiting.'  It  would  be 
quite — quite  useless.  I  am  wedded  to  my  pro- 
fession. I  shall  have  to  give  up  my  whole  life 
to  it.  I  want  to  think  of  that  and  nothing  else." 

"You  want  to  go  on  being  an  actress  here  in 
Paris  all  your  life?" 

She  nodded. 

With  a  fierce  gesture  Robin  dug  the  point  of 
his  cane  into  the  ground.  It  was  horrible !  Ab- 
solutely horrible!  He  was  young,  but  he  was 
no  fool.  Education  and  personal  tastes  had 


190  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

supplied  him  with  singularly  clean  views  of  life. 
Nevertheless  he  knew  very  well  that  it  had  an 
unclean  side.  Ever  since  his  father's  death  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  travelling  constantly  on 
the  Continent  with  his  mother.  Paris  was  as 
familiar  to  him  as  London.  In  Princess  Bori- 
zoff's  salons  he  had  met  some  of  the  wittiest  and 
least  moral  Frenchmen  of  the  day.  He  had 
heard  them  talk.  More  than  that  he  had  often 
seen  them  soil  a  woman's  character  definitely 
with  a  single  glance. 

He  knew  the  grand  monde  of  Paris  very  well 
indeed. 

He  knew  how  it  regarded  its  artistes. 

It  was  utterly  horrible  to  realize  that  in  a  few 
years'  time  people  might  talk  of  his  Queen  of 
Girls  as  they  now  talked  of  Lucienne  Gerome; 
that  she — his  peerless  Isola — might  in  time 
become  common  property;  that  her  photographs 
might  be  purchased  by  every  lewd  reptile  who 
soiled  the  Boulevards  by  his  presence. 

It  was  horrible. 

But  what  was  to  be  done? 

He  traced  a  deep  rut  in  the  path  with  his  cane. 
Isola  watched  him  furtively. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  this  was  a  new  Robin 
Underwood.  In  some  subtle  way  he  had 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  «  191 

changed.  He  seemed  suddenly  to  have  become 
a  man. 

Very  quietly  she  came  close  to  his  side. 

"Truly — truly  I  am  sorry.  And  please  don't 
talk  of  'waiting' — it  would  be  useless." 

He  looked  very  tall  and  straight  as  he  stood 
before  her.  There  was  a  flame  of  excitement  in 
his  eyes. 

"Wait?  Of  course  I  shall  wait — and  go  on 
waiting — until  you're  ready.  You  belong  to  me. 
You  were  made  for  me.  Long  ago,  when  I  was 
only  a  kid,  I  used  to  think  about  the  girl  I  meant 
to  marry,  and  she  always  had  your  eyes — your 
hair — your  face.  I  tell  you  we  were  made  for 
each  other,  and  you  talk  of  not  'waiting.' ' 

His  manner  was  violent.  There  was  a  hoarse 
ring  in  his  voice  which  she  had  never  heard 
before. 

For  a  minute  they  stood  and  looked  at  each 
other. 

Then  Robin's  face  cleared. 

"Poor  little  girl — you're  frightened?  Never 
mind.  I'm  a  dogged  sort  of  chap — bull-dog 
type,  you  know.  I  can't  be  choked  off,  but  I'll 
try  not  be  too  great  a  bother.  What  do  you 
say  to  tea — at  Armenonville  ?" 

The  sudden  change  of  tone  bewildered  her. 
She  tried  to  smile.  Two  tears  rolled  slowly 


192  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

down  her  flushed  cheeks.     Robin  drew  out  a 
handkerchief  and  gently  wiped  them  away. 

"Poor  little  girl,"  he  repeated  softly.  "I  see 
you  must  have  your  fling.  You're  in  love  with 
life  on  the  stage — as  you  see  it  in  your  imagina- 
tion. Well — I  can  wait  until  your  eyes  are 
opened  to  realities.  That  poor  chap,  Jacob, 
served  seven  years — why  not  I?  Only  at  the 
end  of  my  seven  years  I'll  get  hold  of  the  right 
young  woman — you  may  be  sure  of  that  I" 


CHAPTER  XI 

MRS.  UNDERWOOD  had  always  stayed 
at  the  Hotel  Continental  when  she  visited 
Paris.  She  had  stayed  there  when  she  was 
married  to  Charlie  Waring :  afterwards  she  had 
stayed  there  with  her  second  husband,  James 
Underwood. 

In  a  way  it  seemed  like  home. 

Since  she  became  a  widow  for  the  second  time 
she  and  her  only  son  had  visited  Paris  two  or 
three  times  every  year.  They  both  liked  the 
famous  Ville  de  Lumiere,  and  Mrs.  Underwood 
had  hosts  of  friends  who  were  always  "passing 
through,"  en  route  for  the  South;  or  for  Vienna 
or  St.  Petersburg,  or  any  of  those  other  desirable 
places  which  have  to  be  approached  via  Paris. 

She  had  spent  a  pleasant,  but  not  particularly 
restful,  week  at  Deauville  with  Princess  Borizoff. 
She  had  enjoyed  it — but  she  had  been  very  glad 
to  get  back.  Her  old  friend  had  been  rather 
tiresome.  It  had  been  impossible  to  understand 
her.  Mrs.  Underwood  had  been  aware,  all 
through  her  visit,  that  her  hostess  was  studying 
her,  in  a  rather  malicious  way.  They  had  been, 

of  course,  on  the  best  of  terms  yet Mrs, 

Underwood  was  glad  to  get  back  to  Paris  and 
to  Robin. 

193 


194  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

Mother  and  son  were  sitting  in  the  vestibule 
after  dinner. 

Robin  was  smoking  a  cigarette.  His  long  legs 
were  stretched  out,  and  he  had  tilted  back  his 
chair  slightly.  He  swayed  to  and  fro  as  he 
watched  the  restless  human  butterflies  who  flitted 
by — in  the  direction  of  the  bureau  to  search  for 
letters — in  the  direction  of  the  reading-room  in 
search  of  newspapers  and  flirtations. 

The  season  was  at  its  height.  Paris  was 
crowded. 

Some  of  the  American  girls  gliding  by, 
gowned  by  Worth  and  Paquin,  were  quite  lovely. 
Nearly  all  of  them  glanced  slyly  at  the  tall  youth 
with  the  frank  blue  eyes  and  crisp  hair.  Some- 
times a  pretty  woman  stopped  and  exchanged  a 
few  careless  words  with  Mrs.  Underwood  while 
flickering  effective  eyelashes  at  Robin.  "He  has 
such  nice  little  ways!"  All  Clio  Underwood's 
friends  said  that.  And  it  really  was  the  truth. 
Robin's  "little  ways"  were  as  spontaneous  as 
they  were  attractive.  He  was  a  universal  fa- 
vorite :  with  men  and  women  alike. 

His  mother  was  looking  very  distinguished, 
and  surprisingly  young,  in  a  mysteriously  simple 
gown  of  black  lace.  She  was  wearing  a  large 
"picture"  hat,  and  at  her  breast  there  was  a 
cluster  of  soft  pink  roses — a  gift  from  her  de- 
voted cavalier.  She  was  still  a  beautiful  and  at- 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  195 

tractive  woman,  but  it  pleased  her  to  speak  of 
herself  as  a  "have-been" !  With  fine  disregard 
for  grammar  she  had  been  heard  to  say — "A 
widow  two  times  over  has  no  right  to  be  frisky." 

People  were  driving  off  to  the  theaters.  The 
vestibule  was  still  rather  crowded,  but  the  inner 
rooms  seemed  almost  empty. 

Mrs.  Underwood  leaned  forward  and  looked 
through  an  open  glass-door. 

"I  should  like  a  cup  of  tea  to-night,  instead  of 
coffee.  And  shall  we  have  it  in  the  Moorish 
room?  This  place  is  stifling."  Robin  nodded. 
He  signalled  a  waiter :  then  he  strolled  through 
the  reading-room  after  his  mother.  He  had  a 
suspicion  that  she  wanted  to  speak  to  him  rather 
seriously.  Something  in  her  manner  all  through 
dinner  had  made  him  a  trifle  nervous.  All  the 
same  it  would  be  better  to  "have  it  out." 

The  Moorish  room  was  empty.  Mrs.  Under- 
wood drew  the  long  pins  from  her  hat  and  threw 
it  down  on  a  divan.  Robin  was  standing  over 
her.  With  deft  fingers  he  fluffed  out  the  silky 
hair  and  made  it  frame  the  little  oval  face.  His 
mother  looked  up  and  smiled.  She  lowered  her 
lids  quickly,  but  he  had  time  to  see  that  there 
were  tears  in  her  beautiful  brown  eyes. 

"Why— mater!" 

He  laid  one  of  his  strong  brown  hands  on  her 


196  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

arm.  "Mater?"  She  shook  her  head.  Just 
then  a  waiter  came  in  with  tea  and  coffee.  His 
entrance  made  a  little  break.  When  they  were 
again  alone,  Mrs.  Underwood  was  composed. 

"I'm  like  a  foolish  old  hen,  Robby.  I  get 
flustered  the  moment  my  chicken  wanders  out 
into  the  open." 

"Poor  dear  fluffy  mother-bird!"  He  laughed 
softly  and  drew  a  little  closer.  "I'm  rather  a 

sturdy  chicken,  I'm  afraid,  but Where's  'the 

open'?  Seems  to  me  I'm  always  tucked  away 
under  your  wings.  Even  when  I  wander  out, 
just  a  little  way,  you  know  exactly  where  I  am." 

"Yes."  There  was  a  pause.  Robin  sipped 
his  coffee.  "Robby,  haven't  you  come  to  see 
that  it's  impossible  ?  Haven't  you  got  over  it — 
a  little?" 

"You  are  thinking  of  Isola  Bering?"  His 
eyes  met  hers  frankly.  At  that  moment  the 
spirit  of  his  dead  father  seemed  to  look  out  at 
her,  through  them.  Neither  father  nor  son  had 
ever  known  fear,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the 
word.  She  felt  suddenly  nervous.  Her  lips  be- 
gan to  tremble. 

"Robby — don't  you  see  that  it's  quite  impos- 
sible?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Mater — it's  the  only  thing  possible  for  me.  I 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  «  197 

shall  marry  Isola  Dering  or  I  shall  never  marry 
at  all." 

"But  she  has  refused  you — or  so  I  understand. 
It  seems  incredible,  but  perhaps  she  recognizes 
that  it  could  not  be — ever." 

"She  has  refused  me  twice,  practically:  once 
right  out,  the  second  time  in  intention  if  not  in 
words." 

"She  refused  you  twice — that  girl  who  is 
making  herself  the  talk  of  Paris?  She  dared  to 
do  such  a  thing?" 

There  were  no  tears  in  the  big  brown  eyes 
now.  In  their  place  a  flash  of  pride  and  fierce 
anger  had  come.  Robin  smiled. 

"Poor  darling  little  mater — what  a  tremen- 
dous prize  I  am,  in  your  eyes  !  You  dear,  sweet, 
blind,  old  mummy!"  He  was  caressing  her 
hands  with  his.  The  flash  of  anger  suddenly 
vanished. 

"Robby!" 

It  was  very  pathetic,  that  call  of  love.  The 
boy's  face  flushed. 

"Mater!" 

"You're  really  in  earnest  about  this  affair? 
You  really  fancy  yourself  in  love  with  that  girl?" 

"I  know  that  I  love  her — which  is  not  quite 
the  same  thing." 

"You're  so  young." 

"Thank  God  for  that!" 


198  WHAT  IS  LOVE  <? 

He  was  smiling  again.  His  mother  looked  at 
him  in  silence.  Then  she  said,  slowly: 

"But  if  Miss  Bering  loves  some  one  else?" 

"But  she  doesn't!" 

He  spoke  with  such  decision  that  his  mother 
was  startled. 

"How  can  you  know  ?  You  have  just  told  me 
that  she  has  refused  you — twice." 

"She's  going  to  accept  me  at  the  'third  time 
of  asking.'  " 

"Robby!" 

He  looked  straight  into  her  troubled  eyes  and 
laughed  softly. 

"Dear  little  mater!  It's  too  bad  you  should 
be  bothered,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  It  only 
happens  once  in  a  man's  life  to  cross  the  path 
of  his  very  own  special  girl — the  girl  who  was 
made  for  him  by  Almighty  God.  If  he's  such 
a  fool  as  to  let  his  chance  slip,  he  has  to  take  the 
consequences.  These  chances  don't  go  begging. 
One  has  to  seize  on  them  and  hold  them  tight, 
unless  one  wants  to  lose  them  altogether." 

"You  want  to  insist  on  marrying  a  girl  who 
doesn't  love  you  ?" 

His  laugh  was  good  to  hear. 

"Good  Lord — no !  Mater,  that  darling  little 
girl  loves  me  all  right,  only  she  doesn't  know  it. 
Just  now  she's  stuffed  with  wild  ideas  about  the 
Stage.  She  imagines  she's  going  to  go  through 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  "?  199 

life  as  Juliet  or  Galatea,  or  some  other  lovely, 
impossible  creature.  She's  just  a  young  thing 
without  an  ounce  of  real  experience.  She's  at 
the  wild-oat  stage  of  life — let  her  sow  a  few 
innocent  ones.  I  can  wait!" 

"  'Wild  oats' !  A  young  girl !  The  girl  you 
want  to  marry!" 

There  was  horror  in  her  voice.  The  boy 
patted  her  arm  soothingly. 

"Sort  of  metaphorical  wild  oats,  mater,  in- 
nocent as  the  follies  of  a  small  child  of  ten  but — 
to  her — sufficiently  serious.  Of  course  I  know 
your  dear  little  head  is  full  of  romantic  ideas 
about  the  future  Mrs.  Robin,  but  I  assure  you 
we'll  all  be  jolly  lucky  if  we  get  Isola  into  our 
clan.  She's  the  loveliest  and  cleverest  and  sweet- 
est little  girl  in  the  whole  world." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Mrs.  Underwood 
leaned  back.  For  a  second  she  closed  her  eyes. 
Then  she  leaned  over  the  tray  and  poured  out 
some  fresh  tea. 

"Mr.  de  Vesian,  the  poet,  admires  Miss  Ber- 
ing very  much — so  every  one  says." 

She  spoke  without  raising  her  eyes.  Robin's 
face  grew  suddenly  stern. 

"De  Vesian's  a  low  cad.  He  ought  to  be 
kicked  out  of  society." 

He  spoke  so  violently  that  his  mother  raised 
her  hand  in  warning. 


200  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

"Hush — Robin!  There  are  people  in  the 
next  room.  And  besides — what  is  wrong  with 
Mr.  de  Vesian  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  he's  just 
like  all  the  other  young  men  who  run  after  the 
pretty  actresses  here.  Only  that  he  is  very  in- 
telligent." 

"He's  a  beast.  I  can't  think  why  Auntie  asks 
him  to  her  house.  Every  one  knows  what  he  is, 
what  his  ideas  are — about  women " 

"I  assure  you  he  is  on  intimate  terms  with 
Miss  Bering.  Only  the  other  day  his  mother 
told  Gabrielle  Borizoff,  in  my  presence,  that  the 
day  of  miracles  hadn't  left  us,  that  her  son  was 
'seriously  in  love  with  a  jeune  fille.'  " 

"Meaning  Isola  Dering?" 

"I  imagine  so.  In  fact  I'm  quite  sure. 
Gabrielle  turned  the  subject,  but  that  horrid  old 
woman  looked  straight  at  me  when  she  said  it, 
and  I  know  she  was  thinking  of  you — and  of 
your  infatuation  for  that  girl." 

"I  am  not  infatuated.  I  love  her.  And  I 
mean  to  marry  her." 

"Even  if  she  prefers  Guy  de  Vesian?" 

"Mother!" 

Robin  had  his  father's  temper.  When  he  was 
roused  he  could  be  dangerous.  There  was  a 
harsh,  discordant  note  in  his  voice.  His  mother 
looked  up  apprehensively. 

"Robby — darling  boy — I  hate  to  vex  you,  but 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  *  201 

you  are  so  young.  You  have  had  so  little  ex- 
perience. And  you're  very  obstinate.  Can  you 
not  believe  that  /  know  best  this  time?  I've 
seen  a  good  deal  of  life.  I've  met  a  great  many 
people.  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  believe 
me." 

"Mater — what  has  your  experience  to  do 
with  it?  She  is  my  love.  She  will  be  my  wife." 

With  a  smothered  cry  Mrs.  Underwood 
caught  his  hands. 

"Robby — Robby — it  would  kill  me  if  you 
made  a  mistake — if  you  ruined  your  whole  life. 
I  love  you  so,  darling.  The  one  thing  I  want 
is  to  secure  your  happiness." 

He  nodded  smilingly. 

"But  you  want  me  to  be  'happy'  in  your 
way — isn't  that  it  ?  Dear,  human,  little  mummy 
— it's  only  natural!" 

"I  want  you  to  be  really,  really  happy." 

She  spoke  with  dogged  determination.  Her 
face  was  flushed,  her  eyes  unnaturally  bright. 

"So  say  we  all !  I'm  going  to  be  gloriously, 
magnificently  happy,  mater — with  her — and 
with  you!  Leave  it  to  me — it  will  all  come 
right.  I  shouldn't  give  you  a  thank-you  for  a 
bunch  of  grapes  that  fell  right  down  into  my 
hands.  I'd  go  straight  for  the  bunch  high  up  on 
the  top — the  bunch  I  couldn't  get  unless  I  scram- 
bled up  on  ladders  and  barked  my  shins  and  tore 


202  WHAT  IS  LOVE  <? 

the  skin  off  my  fingers.  I  always  fancied  things 
that  seemed  out  of  reach,  and  I  think  it's  a  girl's 
privilege  to  be  'difficile' !  Why  should  a  lovely, 
delicious  girl,  who's  as  clever  as  they  make  'em, 
want  to  throw  herself  into  my  arms?  Isola  is 
right !  If  I  want  to  win  her  I  must  put  my  best 
leg  foremost.  I  must  cling  on  by  the  skin  of 
my  teeth." 

"Robby— you?" 

"Yes,  mater — me!  I've  met  my  fate,  and  jolly 
thankful  I  am  that  I  had  the  dog  sense  to  save 
up  my  love  for  her.  I'd  feel  a  nice  kind  of  a  fool 
now  if  I'd  wasted  my  time  philandering  about 
with  ordinary  girls !  I  always  knew  that  my  im- 
mortal she  was  in  existence  somewhere.  I  always 
meant  to  marry  her." 

He  looked  so  splendid,  so  handsome!  His 
mother's  heart  swelled  with  pride.  Her  boy  was 
one  in  a  thousand.  He  radiated  happiness;  he 
seemed  the  embodiment  of  joie-de-vivre. 

She  tried  to  smile. 

"You  really  think  Miss  Bering  would  like  to 
leave  Paris  and  to  live  in  Devonshire?  I  sup- 
pose you  have  thought  of  all  that,  Robby?  You 
have  not  forgotten  that  your  father  left  a  great 
deal  of  responsibility  on  your  broad  shoulders." 

"Dear  old  dad — yes,  I  know.  Of  course  I've 
thought  of  it  all,  but  she'll  love  it — in  time." 
There  was  a  pause.  Then  he  came  a  little  closer. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ^  203 

"I  say,  mater,  didn't  you  know  Mr.  Bering 
rather  well?  And  Isola's  mother?" 

Mrs.  Underwood's  face  suddenly  hardened. 

"I  didn't  know  the  mother  at  all,"  she  said 
decidedly.  "I  never  had  the  least  wish  to  know 
her.  But  Mr.  Bering — yes.  He  was  charming, 
quite  delightful!" 

"What  was  wrong  with  the  mother?" 

"'Wrong?'  That's  a  difficult  question  to 
answer.  She  was  a  very  beautiful,  very  worldly 
person.  None  of  Mr.  Bering's  friends  wanted 
him  to  marry  her,  but  she  was  very  beautiful — 
quite  extraordinarily  like  what  her  daughter  is 
now.  He  was  in  love " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  deprecatingly. 
Robin  looked  at  her. 

"And  she?  Wasn't  she  in  love  too?  Or  do 
you  suppose  she  married  him  for  money — 
position " 

"Oh,  no!  Not  that,  certainly.  I  disliked  her 
whole  train  de  vie,  but  she  certainly  did  not 
marry  Miles  Bering  for  position.  She  could 
have  married  Prince  Platoff.  In  fact,  I  believe 
she  was  engaged  to  him  at  one  time." 

"The  man  they  used  to  call  (le  Prince  de 
chic?'  A  relative  of  Auntie's  ?" 

Mrs.  Underwood  fanned  herself  vigorously. 

"He  was  related  to  Prince  Borizoff — rather 
distantly." 


204  WHAT  IS  LOVE  « 

"And  Isola's  mother  could  have  married 
him?" 

"Yes." 

Robin  brought  his  hand  down  on  his  knee  with 
a  resounding  clap. 

"I  like  that !  They  made  a  regular  love- 
match,  Isola's  parents.  I  like  that !" 

His  face  was  radiant.  His  mother  looked  at 
him  steadily. 

"Do  you  call  Miss  Dering  'Isola'  when  you 
are  speaking  to  her?  If  not,  I  don't  think  it  is 
in  good  taste  for  you  to  be  so  familiar." 

He  laughed  boyishly. 

"Oh,  you  dear,  little,  cross  mummy,  what  a 
wicked  temper  you  have!  And  what  is  it  all 
about? — my  poor  little  love  affair.  Oh,  mater, 
mater — just  as  if  you  never  fell  in  love  your- 
self!" 

"Robin!" 

"Well,  mater,  isn't  it  true?  Didn't  you  fall 
over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  dad,  and  weren't 
you  and  he  ideally  happy  just  because  you  both 
fell  in  love  and  remained  in  love  ?  He  was  your 
mate,  and  that  was  why  you  were  so  happy. 
Now  /  have  found  my  little  mate  why  do  you 
want  to  play  dog  in  the  manger?" 

"Robin!" 

She  repeated  the  single  word  reproachfully. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  205 

But  the  boy  only  laughed  softly.  He  captured 
one  of  her  white  hands  and  caressed  it. 

"I  suppose  all  mothers  are  alike  in  one  respect. 
They  all  think  their  geese  swans,  and  none  of 
them  believe  that  an  angel  from  heaven  would 
be  'good  enough.'  It's  a  lovely  little  weakness, 
but  you  must  try  to  get  rid  of  it,  mummy.  I  love 
Miss  Bering — is  that  respectful  enough? — with 
my  whole  heart  and  soul  and  body,  and  I  mean 
to  win  her.  Just  now  she  can't  make  up  her 
mind  to  say  'yes,'  but  she  will  before  very 
long.  I've  unbounded  faith  in  the  third  time  of 
asking." 

Mrs.  Underwood  leaned  back  and  closed  her 
eyes. 

It  was  the  most  exquisitely  painful  moment  of 
her  life. 

Her  boy,  her  splendid,  splendid  boy — was  he 
drifting  away  from  her?  Was  she  indeed  to 
realize  what  it  means  to  be  alone?  A  hot  tear 
forced  its  way  through  her  drooping  lashes. 

Robin  saw  it.  In  an  instant  he  had  slipped  his 
arm  round  her  shoulders. 

"Mater !  Darling  little  mummy,  please  don't. 
You're  making  mountains  out  of  the  smallest  of 
mole-hills.  Truly  I  wouldn't  do  anything  that 
would  really  hurt  you,  but  it's  only  imagination. 
It's  only  some  wrong  fancy  that  makes  you  dis- 
like the  idea  of  my  marrying  Isola  Dering. 


206  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

You  don't  know  her,  really.  You've  hardly 
ever  spoken  to  her  alone.  Your  manner  has 
been  so  cold  that  I  know  she  is  frightened  of 
you.  You  haven't  given  her  a  chance,  and  it 
isn't  fair  to  me.  If  I  didn't  know  that  she  is 
everything  that's  adorable  and  sweet,  do  you  sup- 
pose I'd  try  to  make  you  understand?  try  to 
make  you  two  the  best  of  friends?  No!  If 
I'd  had  the  misfortune  to  fall  in  love  with  a 
girl  who  wasn't  your  sort,  I'd  have  faced  the 
matter  out.  I'd  have  realized  from  the  first  that 
I'd  have  to  make  a  choice.  But  with  Isola 
there's  no  question  of  'choice.'  I  shall  have 
you  both  and  you  will  have  us  both !  We  shall 
be  the  perfect  triangle!  And,  by  Jove,  won't 
we  be  happy — just !" 

He  spoke  in  an  excited  whisper.  The  room 
was  quite  empty.  Leaning  forward  he  kissed 
his  mother  on  the  cheek — once,  twice.  She 
caught  his  hands  and  held  them  tightly. 

"Robby!  My  darling,  darling  boy — I  do  so 
want  you  to  be  happy.  I'm  afraid  I'm  awfully 
exigeante,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  sore  when  I 
think  any  one  is  going  to  steal  you  from  me. 
All  the  same,  Robby,  I  do  think  I  shouldn't 
mind  if  only — only " 

"If  only  my  girl  had  been  made  to  measure — 
your  measure,  mummy?  Yes,  I  know  how 
you're  feeling,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  When 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  207 

Isola  was  moulded,  up  above  in  the  skies,  she 
was  branded  'Robin  Underwood's  wife,'  and  I 
saw  the  brand  the  very  first  time  we  met — at 
least,  I  felt  it  was  there !" 

"You  fell  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight?" 

Mrs.  Underwood  was  trying  to  smile,  but  her 
voice  trembled. 

Her  son  nodded. 

"Rather!  Gloriously,  outrageously,  blindly 
in  love!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

ONCE  or  twice  in  each  summer  season  Guy 
de  Vesian  gave  a  midnight  fete. 

He  understood  to  perfection  the  art  of  enter- 
taining. He  knew  how  to  astonish  his  world 
without  giving  it  a  chance  of  saying  that  he 
pandered  to  spectacular  effects.  ^Estheticism 
was  natural  to  him.  He  had  many  faults  but 
"pose"  was  not  one  of  them. 

Tout  Paris  had  been  bidden  to  a  midnight 
garden-party  at  the  Villa  Floralia.  And  Tout 
Paris  had  accepted  with  enthusiasm. 

Eleven  had  just  struck.  The  poet  was  sitting 
on  the  marble  terrace  which  lay  in  front  of  the 
Villa.  He  was  alone.  The  great  windows  of 
the  hall  and  reception-rooms  were  wide  open, 
but  no  sound  of  bustle  or  excitement  came  from 
the  softly  lighted  house.  A  stranger  visiting  the 
scene  for  the  first  time  might  well  have  supposed 
that  the  members  of  the  household  had  retired 
to  rest. 

A  pale  globe  of  nacre  veiled  in  silver  tissues 

hung  low  in  shadows  of  deepest,  darkest  blue. 

Myriads  of  restless  stars  clustered  in  groups. 

Now  and  again  one,  more  daring  than  its  fel- 

208 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  209 

lows,  sprang  across  the  mysterious  gulf  and  dis- 
appeared. 

The  gardens  were  strangely  still.  In  the 
flood  of  silver  light  pale  flowers  raised  their 
heads  and  breathed  forth  subtle  perfumes. 
Below  the  terrace  a  thick  hedge  of  velvet  gerani- 
ums flamed  scarlet  and  purple.  Moonbeams 
dancing  on  the  waters  of  the  dolphin  fountain 
looked  like  showers  of  star-like  flowers — pearl- 
white — restless. 

De  Vesian  turned  in  his  chair  and  looked 
through  an  open  window  into  the  great  hall. 
A  soft,  mellow  glow  radiated  from  electric 
lights  veiled  in  faint  blue  quartz.  In  a  distant 
corner  a  mysterious  gleam,  pastel-tinted,  crept 
through  small  panes  of  jewelled  glass  set  deep  in 
an  old  moorish  lamp  of  dull  copper.  Clouds  of 
scented  smoke  rose  intermittently  from  the  bowl 
of  a  large  brazier.  A  tangle  of  roses,  extraordi- 
narily cleverly  arranged,  lay  against  the  walls, 
which  gleaned  like  alabaster  in  the  subdued  light. 

It  was  an  enchanted  scene. 

The  poet  sighed  softly.  He  leaned  back  and 
closed  his  eyes. 

This  was  to  be  her  Fete. 

He  had  thought  of  it — ordered  it — arranged 
it — for  her. 

In  an  hour  she  would  be  here — in  his  house, 
in  his  exquisite  gardens,  for  the  first  time ! 


210  WHAT  IS  LOVE  « 

He  sighed  again,  a  sigh  of  consuming  im- 
patience. 

His  mother,  with  a  comical  grimace,  had  ac- 
cepted his  suggestion  that  she  should  leave 
cards  on  the  elder  Miss  Bering  and  on  Isola. 
An  invitation  to  the  fete  had  been  issued  and, 
after  much  hesitation  on  Jessica's  part,  accepted. 
She  and  her  niece  had  come  to  understand  each 
other  a  little  better.  They  were  still  apart  as  the 
poles  but,  at  times,  tentative  hands  were  stretched 
out  across  the  abyss.  Miss  Dering  knew  very 
little  about  the  famous  poet,  and  what  she  knew 
she  disliked  intensely,  but — Isola  was  wild  to  go 
to  the  entertainment ! 

In  the  depths  of  the  gardens  faint  lights  began 
to  steal  through  the  interlaced  branches  of  silent 
trees.  In  the  dusky  air  the  waters  of  the  fountain 
fell  like  crystal  rain  on  floating  lilies,  and  on  the 
young-green  lace  of  fragile  ferns.  The  poet 
leaned  his  arms  on  the  marble  balustrade  and 
peered  out  into  the  luminous  shadows. 

It  had  been  a  wonderful  spring,  the  most 
wonderful  of  his  life. 

That  exquisite,  delicious  Niphetos  bud  with 
the  little  pearl-hued  petals  which  touched  the 
earth  but  bore  no  relationship  to  it — she  was 
exquisite,  the  most  perfect  thing  he  had  ever  seen. 
And  thrice-blessed  circumstances — the  ruthless, 


WHAT  IS  LOVE?  211 

coarse  circumstances  of  a  jealous  woman's  pas- 
sion— had  kept  them  apart ! 

Lucienne  Gerome  had  earned  his  gratitude 
for  all  time. 

In  her  frenzy  of  fierce  jealousy  she  had 
strained  every  nerve  to  keep  Isola  away  from 
him. 

When  the  happenings  of  the  daily  theater  life 
had  thrown  him  into  the  girl's  society  the  woman 
of  the  pale  gold  hair  and  burning,  menacing 
eyes  was  always  present.  It  had  been  cleverly 
arranged.  There  had  been  moments  when  the 
great  actress  had  clasped  to  her  breast  the 
thought  that  she  had  been  marvellously  diplo- 
matic. For  Guy  de  Vesian  had  made  no  sign. 

Lucienne  almost  believed  that  the  tiny  seed 
of  admiration  which  had,  perhaps,  been  im- 
planted in  his  imagination  had  drooped  and 
withered  for  want  of  the  dew  of  personal  inter- 
course. 

She  had  fought  a  desperate  fight.  She  be- 
lieved, almost,  that  she  had  won. 

"Almost!" 

For  there  were  moments  when  she  sat  for 
hours  before  her  mirror  and  stared  into  its  cruel 
depths. 

There  were  moments  when  something — some 
mocking  devil  which  lurked  in  a  secret  chamber 
of  her  brain — forced  her  to  compare  that  hate- 


212  WHAT  IS  LOVE  * 

ful  "flower-face"  with  the  quivering  face  re- 
flected in  the  mirror. 

There  were  moments  when  she  remembered, 
vaguely,  certain  personal  revelations  which  her 
lover  had  made  in  those  delicious,  long-ago 
days. 

Was  it  likely  that  he  had  changed  in  charac- 
ter since  then?  Was  it  likely  that  he  had  lost 
that  mad  longing  for  that  which  seemed  out  of 
reach? 

At  such  moments  the  face  in  the  mirror  had 
gcown  strangely  old.  Mocking  sprites  had 
traced  little  paths  for  the  heralds  of  Time  round 
the  mouth  which  had  so  often  been  compared  to 
a  cleft  pomegranate.  And  the  little  lines  had 
wandered  down — down — until  they  surrounded 
the  firm  chin  and  disappeared  into  the  folds  of 
the  too-generous  throat. 

At  those  moments  Lucienne  had  often  lost 
control  of  herself.  Sometimes  she  had  called 
wildly,  madly,  for  the  masseuse,  who  was  said  to 
be  a  worker  of  miracles.  Sometimes  she  had 
given  way  utterly.  Wild  sobs  had  shaken  her 
whole  being.  Floods  of  impotent  tears  had 
dimmed  her  eyes  and  made  the  once  lovely  white 
lids  thick  and  shapeless. 

She  had  been  as  a  woman  possessed  of  a  devil. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  «  213 

And  the  name  of  that  ever-present  devil  was 
Jealousy. 


Midnight  had  passed ! 

Gorgeous  human  butterflies  were  flitting  here 
and  there  in  the  enchanted  gardens  of  the  Villa 
Floralia. 

From  the  depths  of  a  mysterious  grove  there 
came  a  maddening  sound  of  amorous  violins.  A 
company  of  tsiganes  was  hidden  there.  The 
vibrating  notes  of  a  cymbalom  spoke  of  wild  em- 
braces and  clinging  lips. 

On  the  emerald  carpet  of  a  spacious  lawn 
groups  of  Russian  ballet-dancers  flitted  to  and 
fro  in  rhythmic  movement — their  filmy  white 
dresses  giving  a  momentary  impression  of  en- 
chanting unreality. 

***** 

Princess  Borizoff  was  standing  near  a  great 
oak  tree.  A  flood  of  silver  light  streamed  down 
from  the  heavens  and  gave  to  her  stately  figure 
an  appearance  of  statuesque  magnificence.  She 
was  gowned  in  white.  Embroideries  and  fringes 
of  crystal  weighed  down  the  silken  stuffs.  Ropes 
of  pearls  fell  about  her  throat  and  breast.  In 
her  beautiful  hair,  with  its  startling  white  lock, 
there  was  a  tiara  of  superb  diamonds.  The 
night  was  warm,  but  she  had  retained  her  wrap 


214  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

of  sapphire  velvet.  It  fell  loosely  off  her  perfect 
shoulders. 

She  was  leaning  on  Boris  de  Romanoff's  arm. 
She  had  been  speaking  to  him  gaily.  Just  then 
she  was  silent.  Her  dark  eyes  were  resting  in- 
tently on  the  face — the  supple  figure — of  a 
young  girl  who  was  watching  the  dancers  in  a 
glow  of  enthusiasm. 

She  was  very  lovely. 

Clinging  draperies  of  soft  white  satin  moulded 
the  exquisite  form.  It  was  a  robe  that  Josephine 
might  have  worn  when  she  was  in  the  heyday 
of  her  charm  and  beauty.  The  dress  was  short 
enough  to  show  the  little  silver  shoes  and  white 
silk  stockings.  The  rounded  arms  gleamed  like 
marble  in  the  moonlight.  They  were  bare  to  the 
shoulders.  A  silky  mass  of  gold-brown  hair  lay 
close  about  the  small  head,  proudly  poised  on 
the  perfect  throat,  which  still  retained  the  flat- 
ness of  early  youth. 

The  girl  was  unconscious  of  the  admiration 
she  was  exciting.  She  was  absorbed  in  the  en- 
chantment of  the  scene.  Her  hands  were  clasped 
round  a  cluster  of  Niphetos  roses — her  glowing 
eyes  were  following  every  movement  of  the  fly- 
ing dancers.  In  her  excitement  she  had  drawn 
quite  close  to  the  end  of  the  emerald  lawn.  She 
seemed  alone.  Her  slender  white  figure  was 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  215 

silhouetted  against  the  deep  green  of  drooping 
branches. 

"She  is  beautiful." 

It  was  Princess  Borizoff  who  spoke.  Comte 
de  Romanoff  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes. 

"Miss  Bering?     Exquisite!" 

In  silence  they  watched  the  white  figure.  The 
eyes  of  the  Princess  were  dreamy.  She  was 
smiling. 

Then,  suddenly,  they  were  surrounded  by  a 
group  of  eager  friends.  There  were  exclama- 
tions of  enthusiasm,  wild  guesses  as  to  the  possi- 
ble nature  of  further  "surprises,"  mocking  jests, 
idle  innuendoes,  the  careless,  cruel  chatter  of 
cosmopolitan  mondaines.  Princess  Borizoff 
answered  her  friends  at  random.  Her  dark 
eyes  were  still  fixed  on  the  unconscious  girl  in 
virgin-white.  Her  face  grew  hard  when  a  mo- 
ment later  Guy  de  Vesian  softly  approached  the 
border  of  the  lawn.  He  seemed  to  speak  a  few 
words.  The  girl  turned  and  looked  at  him. 
Even  from  a  distance  the  Princess  could  see  the 
light  of  excitement  and  vehement  admiration  on 
her  sensitive  face.  She  looked  up  at  the  poet. 
It  seemed  as  though  she  was  looking  at  a  divine 
being. 

Again  he  spoke  softly. 

A  moment  later  the  spot  where  the  white  fig- 
ure had  stood  was  empty 


216  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 


Isola  was  living  in  a  beautiful  dream.  She 
had  in  some  wonderful,  mysterious  way  entered 
into  the  realms  of  enchantment.  Her  whole 
being  seemed  bathed  in  light  and  love  and  rap- 
ture. Her  most  intimate  visions  had  suddenly 
become  realities. 

She  had  been  right ! 

The  world,  deep  down  beneath  its  careless, 
glittering  surface,  was  what  she  had  imagined 
it  to  be — full  of  delicious  enthusiasm  and 
romance.  Life  was  beautiful !  The  world  still 
held  splendid  human  creatures  who  felt  with 
Dante  that  the  "Lordship  of  Love"  was  worth 
all  else  in  life.  There  were  still  lovers  like 
Romeo — like  Paolo — like  Maurice  de  Saxe! 
She  was  so  happy  that  she  felt  afraid. 

She  was  sitting  with  de  Vesian  in  a  remote 
corner  of  the  beautiful  gardens.  There  was  no 
light  save  that  of  the  silver  moon.  The  broad 
marble  seat,  curved  like  a  crescent,  was  covered 
with  brocaded  stuffs  and  with  luxurious  cushions. 
Before  them  lay  the  rose-garden,  in  the  midst 
of  which  there  was  a  miniature  fountain.  Above 
their  heads  a  canopy  of  dark  foliage  rose  high 
and  then  drooped  languidly.  The  waters  in  the 
oval  basin  threw  up  a  slender  thread  of  crystal. 
From  some  giant  oleanders  in  a  far  corner  there 
came  a  faint,  subtle  breath  of  perfume. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  217 

A  great  white  moth  with  silver-lined  wings 
flitted  past  and  then — returned. 

Isola  held  out  her  bare  arm  and  the  fluttering 
thing  caressed  the  white  flesh  with  its  wings. 
She  laughed  softly. 

The  poet  drew  nearer. 

A  torch  from  his  burning  eyes  leaped  out  and 
set  a  flame  against  the  door  of  her  heart. 

A  divine  flush  rose  to  her  cheeks.  Uncon- 
sciously she  stretched  out  her  hands.  He  caught 

them  softly. 

***** 

The  touch  of  his  hands  was  as  the  touch  of 
fire. 

Isola  closed  her  eyes  for  a  single  second.  He 
was  speaking  in  broken  whispers.  While  he 
spoke  his  eyes  covered  her  with  caresses. 

"You  are  the  wonder-child  of  my  dreams,  the 
exquisite  human  flower  which  has  haunted  my 
imagination.  You  are  my  inspiration,  my  Ideal, 
the  delicious  creature  that  has  become  the  bride 
of  my  soul — my  wonder-child!  my  vision  of 
Spring !  my  mystery  of  mysteries — white  as  the 
velvet  of  a  Niphetos  bud — passionless — still — 
as  awakening  dawn!" 

He  was  silent. 

Isola  was  trembling.     Her  lips  were  parted. 

A  mist  of  glamour  enhanced  the  beauty  of 


218  WHAT  IS  LOVE  « 

her  glorious  eyes.  Again,  as  a  man  in  a  dream, 
the  poet  spoke. 

"You  were  created  for  me.  You  belong  to 
me !  Our  life  together  will  be  Ideal.  We  shall 
be  together — you  and  I.  And  yet  we  shall  be — 
in  the  world — apart,  for  I  would  not  have  the 
breath  of  vulgar  scandal  touch  you.  You  will 
be  the  bride  of  my  imagination — my  spirit- 
bride  with  flesh  of  ivory  and  eyes  of  midnight 
splendor.  My  subtle  thoughts  will  caress  your 
senses  and  slowly  awaken  them  to  exquisite  life. 
The  mystic  spirits  of  my  soul  will  creep  down 
into  the  depths  of  your  startled  eyes — they  will 
beat  softly  on  the  doors  of  your  soul." 

In  the  perfumed  darkness  he  drew  very  near 
and  gazed  into  her  eyes.  His  face  was  strangely 
white.  His  hands  were  burning.  The  demon 
of  insanity  which  crouched  by  the  doors  of  his 
imagination  had  slipped  its  fragile  curb.  He 
was  mad,  with  the  madness  of  self-worship. 

This  lovely  child ! 

What  a  glorious  inspiration ! 

How  much  she  could  do  for  him ! 

Was  she  not  truly  the  heaven-sent  bride  of  his 
Genius? 

Isola  was  trembling.  Her  brain  seemed  on 
fire.  Her  pulses  were  throbbing  violently.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  no  longer  in  the 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  f  219 

world.  She  was  floating  away  on  a  cloud  of 
silver  dreams — where? 

She  held  her  breath.  In  the  darkness  a  flood 
of  burning  color  rose  to  her  cheeks.  She  sat 
perfectly  still. 

The  poet  drew  so  close  that  his  breath  fanned 
her  face. 

Very  softly  he  passed  his  hand  over  her 
white  throat.  Then — still  very  softly — he  laid 
his  lips  against  her  bare  arm. 

"You  belong  to  me,"  he  whispered.  "You 
are  all  mine — mine  only.  That  must  be  our 
secret.  The  world  must  never  know — for  the 
world  is  vulgar  and  brutal.  It  will  never  under- 
stand the  things  that  are  exquisite — the  things 
that  have  value.  The  world  would  tell  you  to 
call  for  priest  and  church.  /  tell  you  that  Love 
is  its  own  priest.  The  benediction  of  love  is 
the  only  benediction  that  has  value.  Once- 
long  ago — when  I  was  a  very  young  man,  I  was 
tempted  to  bow  to  the  ridiculous  dictates  of  the 
world.  I  married,  in  a  church,  a  lovely  girl  who 
seemed  ideal,  but  who  bitterly  disappointed  me. 
The  church  gave  me  a  benediction  then  and  Love 
was  offended.  For  a  few  weeks  he  lingered  by 
me,  and  then — he  spread  his  wings!  It  was 
merely  an  episode.  But  it  was  a  lesson.  I  wish 
her  well.  When  we  meet  we  meet  as  friends; 
but  to  live  with  her — near  her — No!" 


220  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

His  voice  was  hoarse.  Again  he  laid  his  lips 
against  her  arm,  and  this  time  their  touch  was 
violent. 

A  second  longer  Isola  sat  perfectly  still.  The 
hand  of  death  seemed  suddenly  to  have  been  laid 
on  her.  She  was  incapable  of  movement. 

And  de  Vesian  also  sat  motionless. 

Very  slowly  he  was  opening  the  gates  of  his 
imagination  to  a  new  emotion. 

He  meant  to  drain  this  wonderful  cup  of  ex- 
perience to  the  dregs — slowly. 

The  pressure  of  his  burning  lips  ceased. 
Once  again  he  raised  his  white  hand  and  touched 
the  perfect  throat  and  neck. 

The  spell  was  broken ! 

With  a  cry  of  horror  the  girl  rose  to  her  feet. 
For  a  moment  she  stood  before  him,  quivering 
with  excitement. 

Then  she  turned  from  him  and  fled  across  the 
gardens. 

The  poet  rose.  Then  he  softly  sank  back  on 
the  broad  seat. 

He  was  not  disturbed. 

He  was  hardly  surprised. 

She  was  so  wonderfully  young !  so  amazingly 
innocent ! 

This  was  to  be  the  most  exquisite  experience 
of  his  life. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  «  221 

For  many  moments  he  sat  motionless.  Then 
he  slowly  crossed  the  lawn  and  joined  the  group 
of  eager  admirers  which  had  gathered  round 

Princess  Borizoff. 

***** 

An  hour  later  Lucienne  Gerome  was  still 
crouching  behind  the  thick  hedge  of  laurels 
which  framed  the  crescent  seat.  Her  wonderful 
gown  of  silver  tissues  was  torn.  Here  and 
there  it  was  horribly  discolored  with  damp  earth. 
There  were  crimson  marks  on  her  throat,  for 
in  her  fury  she  had  tried  to  drive  her  nails  into 
her  flesh. 

She  looked  terrible. 

The  lines  on  her  white  face  were  like  little 
furroughs. 

Streaks  of  pale  light  were  creeping  out  from 
the  horizon.  The  veil  of  dazzling  silver  had 
passed  from  the  face  of  the  moon.  It  lay  milk- 
white  against  a  dome  of  paling  azure. 

In  the  gallery  which  ran  round  the  great  hall 
of  the  Villa  Floralia  musicians  were  playing  a 
dreamy  valse. 

Guy  de  Vesian  was  smiling  as  he  led  an  im- 
promptu cotillion  with  a  lovely  Austrian  girl 
who  adored  him. 

In  some  church-tower  a  bell  struck  five  times. 

Paris  was  awakening. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AFTER  the  midnight  Fete  at  the  Villa 
Floralia  Lucienne  Gerome  made  no  effort 
to  control  her  violent  temper. 

Daily,  hourly,  there  were  terrific  scenes  at 
her  theater.  She  was  by  turns  insulting,  savage, 
hysterical,  and — with  some  of  the  victims — re- 
pentant. But  she  never  expressed  regret  for  the 
sufferings  she  inflicted  on  the  young  English 
girl,  who  was  now  an  important  member  of  her 
company. 

To  Isola  she  was  openly  offensive.  Nothing 
the  girl  could  do  was  right.  She  laughed  at  her, 
jeered  at  her  accent,  which  was  in  reality  almost 
perfect;  kept  her  standing  for  hours  together, 
wore  her  out  with  unnecessary  fatigue.  And 
still  she  resolutely  held  the  girl  to  her  contract. 
She  was  determined  to  keep  her  at  the  theater 
until  the  end  of  the  season,  come  what  might. 

She  was  a  daughter  of  the  people.  Her 
mother  had  been  a  virago :  the  type  of  French- 
woman who  knitted  savagely  as  the  tumbrils 
bearing  hated  aristocrats  to  the  guillotine  rattled 
through  the  streets  of  Paris. 

She  possessed  to  the  full  her  countrywomen's 
extraordinary  adaptability  of  character.  She 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  223 

had  easily  and  quickly  acquired  a  veneer  which 
enabled  her  to  rustle  with  the  best  when  occa- 
sion demanded  it. 

And  then  she  was  in  her  own  way  a  genius. 

But  what  genius  she  had  was  amplified  by  her 
constitutional  and  acquired  lack  of  self-control. 
She  had  known  how  to  impose  an  exaggeratedly 
unrestrained  temperament  upon  her  world.  For 
many  years  she  had  been  clever  enough  and 
beautiful  enough  to  make  people  enchanted  with 
her  eccentricities.  She  had  never  found  it  neces- 
sary to  curb  her  emotions  of  the  immediate  mo- 
ment. She  had  never  tried  to  do  so.  Now 
self-restraint  was  impossible.  It  was  second 
nature  to  her  to  rage  and  storm  when  anything 
annoyed  her,  to  become  violently  hysterical  one 
minute,  and  the  next  to  fling  herself  on  the 
breast  of  some  one  she  had  grossly  insulted. 
Generous  to  a  fault  where  money  was  concerned, 
she  had  never  thought  of  laying  any  by.  She 
had  always  been  able  to  command  it  in  lavish 

quantities. 

***** 

She  was  walking  to  and  fro  in  her  dressing- 
room,  glancing  critically  at  some  wonderful 
"creations"  which  Raoul  Brossan  had  just  de- 
livered, turning  over  the  roses  in  a  great  basket 
which  lay  on  a  side  table.  She  was  in  an  evil 
mood.  Isola  Dering  was  standing  near  the 


224  WHAT  IS  LOVE  «" 

door;  her  face  was  very  white;  she  was  look- 
ing intently  at  the  great  actress. 

Suddenly  Lucienne  turned  to  her. 

"You  have  heard  my  decision.  You  are  a  raw 
amateur  and  you  make  no  progress,  but  you  will 
have  to  stick  to  your  contract.  You  will  have  to 
play  the  role  of  Madeleine  Delorme  every  night 

until  the  end  of  the  season.  After  that " 

She  laughed  derisively.  "After  that — your 
friend,  Gaston  Lery,  will  probably  do  something 
for  you.  You  owe  him  a  great  deal  already." 

Isola  flushed  up.  She  was  miserable,  but  her 
pride  came  to  the  rescue. 

"I  am  not  aware  that  I  owe  Monsieur  Lery 
anything.  I  hardly  know  him." 

Lucienne  laughed  again. 

"You  owe  him  your  present  position  in  the 
most  important  theater  in  Paris !  And  you  owe 
him  your  newly-acquired  experience  of — life ! 
He  and  Guy  de  Vesian  are  bosom  friends,  you 
know!" 

"You  mean " 

"I  mean  that  I  also  was  at  that  wonderful 
Midnight  Fete  the  other  night,  and  that  I  am 
very  well  aware  of  what  occurred — down  there 
in  that  dark  corner  of  the  garden !  It  was  really 
too  bad,  but  it  was  intended  kindly.  Lery  wrote 
to  me  some  weeks  ago  and  said  that  nothing 
could  be  done  with  you,  as  an  actress,  until  you 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  225 

had  had  an  'experience.'  I  told  him  it  wasn't 
quite  fair,  but  he  and  Guy  de  Vesian  seemed 
to  think  that  something  might  be  made  of  you — 
in  the  end!" 

"Madame  Lucienne!" 

There  was  vehement  indignation  in  the  girl's 
voice,  and  a  piteous  appeal.  Lucienne  Gerome 
smiled  as  she  threw  herself  on  the  big  divan  and 
crossed  her  arms  behind  her  head. 

"You're  surprised?  Why?  Did  you  sup- 
pose that  Guy  de  Vesian  was  really  in  love  with 
you?" 

"He  insulted  me  grossly — cruelly.  If  my 
father  had  been  alive  he  would  have  killed 
him." 

She  spoke  passionately.  She  had  suffered. 
She  was  hurt,  miserable,  sullen.  She  had  ac- 
cepted many  insults  from  the  woman  who  had 
been  her  idol,  but  this 

Lucienne  laughed  aloud. 

"'Insulted  you?'  How?  He  pretended  to 
make  love  to  you.  Was  that  a  deadly  insult?" 

"He  dared  to  speak  of  sharing  my  life — of 
being  with  me  always — of  my  belonging  to  him, 
when  all  the  time  he  is  a  married  man.  His 
wife  is  alive,  he  told  me  so." 

She  spoke  incoherently.  She  was  breathless 
with  pent-up  indignation.  The  actress  stretched 
herself  out  full  length  and  laughed  violently. 


226  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

"Superb!  An  ideal  Sainte  Nitouche!  So 
ardent !  so  demure !  so  easily  shocked !  so 
extraordinarily  innocent !  Of  course  Guy  de 
Vesian  is  a  married  man,  and  of  course  he  does 
not  live  with  his  wife.  What  does  a  great  poet 
want  with  a  wife?  What  has  he  to  do  with 
your  ridiculous  English  family-life?  He  is  a 
great  artist,  just  as  I  am  a  great  artist.  He  is 
free — as  I  am  free.  And  yet  we  two  are 
bound — to  each  other."  She  sat  up  suddenly 
and  leaned  on  her  elbow.  Isola  was  staring  at 
her. 

"Are  you  really  an  idiot?  Are  you  blind? 
Don't  you  know  that  he  is  my  lover,  that  he 
has  been  my  lover  for  years,  that  we  belong  to 
each  other  absolutely?  Are  you  such  a  fool  as 
to  believe  that  he  really  cared  for  you?" 

Her  face  was  twitching.  The  lines  about  her 
mouth  were  hard.  Her  eyelids  were  swollen. 
She  had  slept  little  and  wept  often  and  violently, 
since  the  night  of  the  moonlight  Fete.  She 
looked  old  and  very  worn.  There  was  some- 
thing in  her  look  that  filled  the  girl  with  horror. 

She  was  furiously  indignant. 

But,  also,  she  was  frightened. 

She  had  a  horrible  conviction  that  the  actress 
was  going  mad. 

Without  speaking  she  moved  quietly  towards 
the  door.  Lucienne  Gerome  watched  her  as  a 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  227 

cat  might  watch  a  mouse.  When  the  girl's  hand 
was  on  the  handle  she  spoke  sharply. 

"Come  here!" 

Hypnotized,  Isola  returned.  She  stood  still 
in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

Lucienne  stared  at  her.  Her  experienced 
eyes  took  in  every  point.  She  grew  sick  with 
jealousy  as  she  recognized  afresh  the  girl's 
beauty. 

"Young!     Beautiful!" 

The  words  repeated  themselves  again  and 
again  in  her  throbbing  brain. 

"Young/     Beautiful!" 

The  wild  eyes  of  the  actress  held  their  victim. 
Isola  did  not  dare  to  move.  She  hardly  dared 
to  breathe. 

Lucienne's  thoughts  were  tearing  down  the 
veil  that  shrouded  the  spirits  of  past  years. 
They  were  racing  back  to  those  glorious  days 
when  life — her  life — had  been  in  Spring,  when 
all  the  world  had  been  at  her  feet,  when  she  had 
been  feted  and  flattered  and  covered  with  jewels 
— with  exquisite  flowers — with  more  money  than 
she,  even  she,  knew  how  to  spend. 

What  a  glorious  Spring! 

How  it  had  teemed  with  possibilities! 

Each  day  had  brought  with  it  fresh  joys,  fresh 
triumphs,  fresh  adorers. 


228  WHAT  IS  LOVE  <? 

She  had  been  the  idol  of  Europe.  Her  com- 
ings and  goings  had  been  of  more  importance 
than  the  movements  of  crowned  heads.  She  had 
ruled  her  world  autocratically,  by  reason  of  her 
strange  beauty,  by  reason  of  her  genius. 

And  it  had  still  been  summer  in  her  life  when 
she  learned  what  love  meant,  when  she  lost  her- 
self in  the  depths  of  a  man's  laughing  eyes! 

How  she  had  loved  him ! 

Dear  God! — how  madly  she  loved  him  still! 

She  was  obsessed. 

She  had  been,  unconsciously,  nearing  her 
autumn  when  she  met  Guy  de  Vesian.  She  had 
given  him  that  vehement,  terrible  love  of  which 
women  of  certain  temperament,  under  the  spell 
of  unrecognized  autumn,  are  capable. 

From  the  first  he  had  attracted  her  more  than 
any  other  man  had  ever  attracted  her. 

Then  he  had  held  her  by  the  silver  threads  of 
his  illusive  charm. 

In  the  end  he  had  sealed  her  as  his  own  with 
the  seal  of  egoism.  He  thought  of  himself  only 
— at  all  times. 

She  thought  of  him  only — and  at  all  times! 

All  other  men  she  had  been  able  to  influence 
easily. 

This  one  man  influenced  her. 

He  held  her. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  229 

***** 

In  the  domed  ceiling  of  the  dressing-room 
there  were  stained  windows  of  curious  design. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon. 

Suddenly,  unexpectedly,  a  ray  from  the  set- 
ting sun  flashed  in  through  dulled  glass  which 
showed  metallic  tones  of  green  and  palest  blue. 
The  brilliant  light  caught  the  girl's  hair  and 
turned  it  to  burnished  gold.  It  veiled  her 
slender  figure  for  a  single  moment.  She  looked 
exquisite,  unreal. 

With  a  cry  of  fury  Lucienne  sprang  from  the 
couch  and  rushed  towards  her.  Her  eyes  were 
full  of  hatred. 

Isola  drew  back  in  terror. 

For  a  moment  they  stood  face  to  face. 

Then  the  actress  flung  open  the  door  and 
pushed  the  girl  out  violently. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

P)RINCESS  BORIZOFF  was  reading  aloud 
broken   sentences    from   the   book   in   her 
hand. 

She  was,  so  she  said,  improving  Robin  Under- 
wood's French.  The  two  were  sitting  in  a  high, 
white-panelled  room,  on  the  first  floor  of  the 
Hotel  Borizoff.  It  was  a  sitting-room  belong- 
ing to  the  Princess's  private  suite.  On  the  walls 
there  were  several  Fragonards.  The  floor  was 
strewn  with  white  bear  rugs.  Hangings  of  sea- 
green  satin  lent  an  air  of  special  freshness  to  the 
oval  room ;  and  this  freshness  was  heightened  by 
the  presence  of  tall  white  lilies  in  slender,  silver 
jars.  The  Princess  was  gowned  in  white  laces. 
Her  head  was  bent  over  her  book.  As  she 
slowly  turned  the  pages  her  beautiful  fingers 
tangled  themselves  in  the  historic  rope  of  pearls 
which  she  always  wore. 

"  'Les  delicats  ne  sont  pas  vetus  pour  le  voy- 
age de  la  'vie!  " 

Robin  put  down  his  cup  with  a  clatter. 

"That's  jolly  true !  Seems  to  me  'la  vie,'  as 
they  understand  it  over  here,  is  a  regular  old 
beast." 

She  closed  the  book,  smiling. 
230 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  231 

"A  propos  of  what,  Robby?" 

"Oh — I  don't  know.  At  least I  say, 

Auntie,  I  want  you  to  do  me  an  immense  favor. 
Will  you  promise?" 

"Blindly?"  She  laughed  softly.  "You  are 
rather  a  wonderful  young  man,  Robby!" 

He  looked  unexpectedly  confused.  For  a 
second  or  two  he  remained  silent.  The  Princess 
let  her  dark  eyes  wander  over  his  well-knit 
figure  clad  in  pale  grey.  Her  gaze  remained 
stationary  as  it  reached  the  carefully  arranged 
buttonhole  of  Parma  violets.  They  matched  the 
little  thin  tie  to  perfection! 

"I  say,  Auntie,  -don't  tease.  I'm  awfully 
worried  and  I  want  your  advice — your  help." 

"Yes.     What  is  wrong  now?" 

The  mischievous  stress  on  the  last  word 
brought  a  tinge  of  color  to  his  brown  cheeks. 
He  sat  up  very  straight. 

"It  isn't  a  case  of  'now'  or  'then.'  It's 
always  the  same  thing.  Auntie,  she's  awfully 
seedy.  I  haven't  been  able  to  see  her  for  over 
a  week.  Won't  you  do  something?" 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause. 

"You  are  speaking  of  Miss  Bering  ?" 

"Of  course." 

"She  is  ill?" 

"  '111'  ?  Oh,  I  don't  think  it's  so  serious  as 
all  that,  but  she's  run  down — so  her  aunt  said. 


232  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

The  heat  or  something.  At  any  rate  I  haven't 
been  able  to  see  her,  and  I  don't  like  to  bother 
her  with  letters.  Flowers,  of  course,  but  letters 
seem  to  demand  answers,  and  if  she's  really 
upset " 

The  boy  looked  abjectly  miserable. 

They  were  sitting  very  close  together.  The 
Princess  stretched  out  her  hand  and  patted  his 
face. 

"Poor  Bobby !  It's  too  bad,  but  I  expect  that 
Miss  Bering  is  not  very  seriously  ill !  Certainly 
she  looked  the  picture  of  health  the  other  night, 
at  the  Villa  Floralia." 

"Hang  the  Villa  Floralia."  The  boy  spoke 
violently.  He  made  a  sudden  movement  which 
set  the  tea-cups  clattering.  A  second  later  he 
looked  remorseful.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Auntie. 
I'm  an  ill-mannered  brute,  but  that  fellow  dis- 
gusts me.  It's  an  abominable  shame  that  he  and 
that  loathesome  creature  Lery  should  have  the 
right  to  enter  her  presence." 

Princess  Borizoff  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"Monsieur  Lery  is  the  most  popular  French 
dramatist  of  the  day.  Monsieur  de  Vesian  is 
something  of  a  genius.  Miss  Bering  has  chosen 
an  artistic  profession.  It  is  necessary  for  her  to 
keep  in  touch  with  artists." 

She  spoke  carelessly,  but  she  was  watching 
him  closely. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  233 

For  a  moment  he  remained  motionless.  Then 
he  brought  his  clenched  hands  down  on  his 
knees. 

"It's  a  beastly  shame.  She's  just  a  poor  little 
girl,  whd  has  lost  her  way  in  their  horrible  vie 
artistique.  She  knows  no  more  about  its  reali- 
ties than  an  unborn  baby.  But  if  she  stays  in 
that  set  long  enough  they'll  force  her  to  know. 
And  what  then?"  The  veins  on  his  forehead 
were  standing  out  in  knots.  His  eyes  were 
flaming  with  indignation.  "Auntie,  do  you  re- 
member that  singing  chap  in  Ouida's  'Moths'? 
I  forget  his  name,  but  he  had  a  lot  that  was  fine 
in  him.  Do  you  remember  the  wedding-present 
he  sent  the  poor  little  girl  'Vera'?  It  was  a 
sort  of  allegory — a  little  moth  in  jewels  that 
couldn't  make  up  its  mind  whether  it  wanted  to 
rise  to  the  stars  or  sink  to  the  flames.  I  was 
reading  the  book  only  this  morning.  Somehow 
it  made  me  think  of  her.  She's  awfully  like  that 
girl  'Vera,'  in  many  ways." 

It  was  an  incoherent  speech,  but  the  Princess 
understood.  She  remembered  the  book.  She 
had  seen  something  of  Ouida  in  Italy,  in  the 
days  when  the  famous  writer  was  comparatively 
poor;  she  had  always  admired  her  exuberant 
talent. 

"You  know  Miss  Dering.  I  do  not.  But  I 
have  seen  her.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  she 


234  WHAT  IS  LOVE  <? 

has  sides  to  her  character  which  were  unknown 
to  'Vera.'  " 

"Of  course!"  Robin  was  vehement.  "Isola 
is  a  splendid  human  girl — not  an  impossible 
heroine  of  a  novel.  Thank  God  she's  not  per- 
fect, but  she's  the  sweetest,  loveliest  thing  in  the 
whole  world." 

The  Princess  was  insistent. 

"Robby,  tell  me — what  are  you  going  to  do 
if  this  wonderful  girl  elects  to  remain  on  the 
stage?  Can  you  really  contemplate  marrying  a 
French  actress?" 

"Stay  on  the  stage — here — after  we  were 
married?  Not  much!" 

He  spoke  violently.    The  Princess  smiled. 

"But  suppose  she  refuses  to  give  up  her 
chosen  profession?" 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

Robin  leaned  forward  and  drummed  his  right 
hand  on  his  knee.  He  was  visibly  excited. 
After  a  moment  he  raised  his  other  hand  and 
brushed  his  short  hair  from  his  forehead. 

"Auntie — do  you  mind  if  I  say  something 
rather  intimate?  Will  you  forgive  me  if  I  seem 
cheeky — when  you  know  I  don't  mean  it?"  She 
nodded  smilingly.  "Well,  it's  like  this,  you  see. 
If  you've  ever  really  been  in  love  you  can  under- 
stand how  I  feel.  If  not — why,  you'll  never, 
never  understand." 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  235 

The  faintest  tinge  of  color  rose  to  her  face. 
She  was  an  intensely  proud  woman.  No  one,  in 
all  her  life,  had  dared  to  say  such  an  intimate 
thing  to  her.  For  a  moment  she  felt  inclined  to 
resent  the  audacity.  Then  her  half-caressing, 
half-mocking  smile  stole  back. 

"You're  a  young  man  of  courage,  Robby. 
But  before  I  undertake  to  answer  such  an  im- 
portant suggestion  as  that  I  should  like  to  follow 
your  meaning.  You  wish  me  to  realize  what 
it  means  to  you  to  be  in  love  ?  You  wish  me  to 
realize  that  a  great  love  can  remove  mountains? 
Perhaps!  But  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
very  much  depends  upon  the  nature  of  the 
mountains!" 

"That's  just  it!  It  would  be  jolly  hard — 
almost  impossible — to  fight  against  another  man 
— if  he  had  managed  to  get  hold  of  her  heart. 
But  a  profession!  That's  quite  different.  And 
then  in  this  case  it's  an  imaginary  profession,  for 
that  darling  little  girl  hasn't  a  ghost  of  an  idea 
of  what  life  on  the  Paris  stage  really  means. 
She  wants  to  be  Juliet  and  that  girl  Dante  was 
in  love  with,  and  all  those  other  fascinating 
creatures  one  reads  about;  but  the  real  thing — 
here!  Why,  she  couldn't  stand  it  for  an  hour 
if  she  knew." 

The  Princess  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"You  are  sure  that  it  is  only  the  'profession' 


236  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

you  will  have  to  fight?  You  are  sure  that  there 
is  not  another  man?" 

She  spoke  quietly,  but  with  evident  meaning. 
Robin  flushed  up. 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking — that  beast 
de  Vesian?"  He  looked  at  her  defiantly.  She 
made  a  slight  gesture  of  assent.  "I've  thought 
of  that  too — lots  of  times.  I  see  the  danger. 
She's  as  blind  to  his  real  nature  as  she  is  to  the 
realities  of  the  Paris  stage.  She's  just  sailing 
along  on  a  sort  of  enchanted  lake  of  her  own, 
and  it  doesn't  matter  if  only  she  doesn't  get 
drawn  out  to  sea — before  she  realizes  that  a  sea 
exists." 

There  were  beads  of  perspiration  on  his  fore- 
head. He  brushed  them  aside  irritably.  For 
the  first  time  he  was  giving  voice  to  a  fear  that 
haunted  him  night  and  day. 

With  a  caressing  gesture  the  Princess  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"Robby,  suppose  that  happened?  Suppose 
the  girl  you  love  was  really  drawn  into  the 
rapids?  Suppose  that  she  passed  out  of  her 
enchanted  lake — never  to  return?" 

The  oath  which  broke  from  his  lips  was 
scarcely  smothered,  but  the  Princess  Borizoff 
was  not  in  the  least  offended.  On  the  contrary, 
she  was  conscious  of  a  sensation  of  pleasure. 
Her  white  hand  stole  down  his  coat  sleeve  and 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  237 

rested  on  the  hot,  restless  hand  which  was 
pressed  against  his  knee. 

"You  would  still  love  her?  You  would  still 
want  to  make  her  your  wife?" 

"My  God!  Auntie,  can't  you  understand? 
Don't  you  realize  that  love — real,  true  love — 
is  deathless?  It  can  no  more  die  than  the  soul 
can  die — unless  it  dies  of  utter  starvation.  To 
love  is  to  understand.  To  understand  is  to  for- 
give— everything — anything.  But  with  Isola 
there'll  never  be  anything  real  to  forgive.  She's 
too  sweet  and  pure  and  lovely  for  any  real 
wrong  to  touch  her.  Only — she's  so  young. 
She  knows  so  little  of  the  world." 

He  lay  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 

The  Princess  watched  him.  Her  eyes  had 
grown  very  tender.  In  their  depths  there  was  a 
shadow  of  beautiful  dreams. 

He  was  such  a  boy.    And  yet  he  was  strong. 

Miles  Bering  would  have  liked  him — well ! 
***** 

Robin  opened  his  eyes.  He  smiled.  Throw- 
ing open  his  grey  coat,  he  expanded  his  shoul- 
ders and  slapped  his  broad  chest. 

"I've  been  talking  awful  nonsense,  Auntie! 
I've  been  going  on  like  some  romantic  ass  in  a 
sixpenny  novel.  These  mountains  don't  really 
exist.  Or  if  they  do  exist  they're  made  of  card- 


238  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

board.  A  good  kick  will  knock  them  into 
kingdom-come !" 

He  leaned  forward  and  took  up  her  cup. 
Very  carefully  he  poured  out  some  fresh  tea,  and 
then  proceeded  to  add  butter  to  an  already  well- 
buttered  muffin.  The  Princess  watched  him.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  history  was  repeating  itself. 
In  the  long-ago  days — far  away  in  beautiful 
Rome — Miles  Bering  had  prepared  her  tea  in 
just  this  way.  He,  also,  had  been  past-master 
in  the  art  of  muffin-buttering. 

She  sighed  softly. 

Robin  carefully  placed  the  cup  and  plate  on 
the  table.  Then  he  knelt  down  by  her  side. 
Very  gently  he  wound  his  strong  young  arms 
round  her  waist. 

"Dearest — loveliest — Auntie !  Are  you  going 
to  grant  me  that  favor?" 

His  deep  blue  eyes  were  shining.  He  looked 
very  ardent.  She  raised  her  hand  and  smoothed 
her  crisp  hair. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  this  time?" 

"I  want  you  to  give  me  a  leg  up." 

She  laughed  outright. 

"'A  leg  up'?    Up  where?" 

"Auntie — I  want  you  to  see  her — just  you  two 
alone  together.  I  want  you  to  talk  to  her,  to 
draw  her  out,  to  make  her  confide  in  you.  You 
could  do  it  if  you  wished,  because  you're  so 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  239 

awfully  magnificent  that  if  once  you  let  any  one 
see  you  were  human  you  could  do  anything  you 
liked.  Isola — any  one'd  be  so  awfully  flattered 
that  they — she,  I  mean — would  say  out  every- 
thing." 

She  laughed  again. 

"My  dear  boy — where  did  you  learn  Eng- 
lish? I  am  a  poor  ignorant  foreigner,  but  cer- 
tainly I  speak  your  language  better  than  you  do  ! 
But  that  does  not  matter.  Tell  me  more  about 
this  'leg  up.'  " 

He  softly  pinched  her  arm. 

"You  tease!  Well,  don't  you  see,  it's  like 
this.  A  fellow  seems  an  awful  fool  when  he 
asks  some  one  to  say  pretty  things  about  him, 
but  that's  very  much  what  I  want.  I  feel  I'm 
at  a  disadvantage  with  her.  She  knows  me 
fairly  well,  of  course,  but  it  isn't  as  if  we'd  been 
staying  in  the  same  houses  together  and  had  the 
same  friends.  You  know  it  really  does  give  a 
fellow  a  leg  up  when  some  one — diplomatically, 
of  course — says  he's  an  awfully  good  sort,  and 
that  other  people  think  no  small  beer  of  him, 
and  that  he  can  ride  fairly  straight,  and  doesn't 
pepper  beaters  in  the  leg  or  anything  of  that 
sort.  You're  the  ideal  ambassadress,  you  know. 
It  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  life  to  you,  and 
it  might  do  me  no  end  of  good." 

"You  don't  think  your  mother  is " 


240  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

He  broke  in  vehemently. 
"No  good  at  all.  The  dear  little  mater  is 
perfection  itself,  but  she's  not  enthusiastic  over 
this  affair.  And  even  if  she  wanted  to  pull  it 
off  she'd  go  the  wrong  way  about  it — in  a  con- 
versation with  Isola.  You  know  the  mater? 
She  thinks  an  angel  straight  from  heaven 
wouldn't  be  half  good  enough  for  me !  And, 
though  she's  too  well-bred  to  say  so  in  so  many 
words,  she'd  jolly  well  make  her  meaning  un- 
derstood. Oh,  no — that  wouldn't  do  at  all.  In 
the  first  place,  she  wouldn't  do  it,  and  if  she  did, 
she'd  get  Isola's  back  up.  For  that  little  girl 
has  lots  of  pride,  I  can  tell  you." 

She  smiled. 

"I  do  not  doubt  it!  But  I  do  not  yet  quite 
see  what  you  want  me  to  do.  I  have  already 
called  on  Miss  Dering,  but  she  was  not  at  home. 
She  and  her  aunt  left  cards  here,  but  they  did 
not  come  on  my  'day.'  What  next?" 

She  ruffled  his  hair  mischievously.  He  turned 
his  head  quickly  and  kissed  her  hand. 

"That's  all  right.  You  mean  to  do  it.  I 
know  your  little  ways.  And,  Auntie,  look  here 
— not  a  word  about  my  blessed  'position,'  if  you 
love  me.  What  is  it?  Where's  the  tremendous 
pull  of  -being  fairly  well  off  <and  a  'country 
gentleman'  ?  In  reality  it  would  be  a  big  sacri- 
fice for  her  to  consent  to  bury  herself  in  Devon- 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  241 

shire — though,  of  course,  we'll  have  a  house  in 
town,  and  we  can  travel  about  as  much  as  she 
likes.  The  mater  thinks  I'm  no  end  of  a  catch, 
but,  by  Jove !  I  don't  see  myself  in  that  light — 
where  Isola  is  concerned.  All  the  same,  I  want 
you  to  say  a  few  nice  things  about  me !  You 
know,  I  have  to  run  over  to  London  for  a  few 
days.  Like  the  sweetest  Auntie  that  you  are, 
make  an  opportunity  for  seeing  her  while  I'm 
away.  That  would  look  most  awfully  natural, 
and  then — do  what  you  can  for  me.  I've  any 
amount  of  love  to  offer,  if  that  counts." 

The  Princess  leaned  forward  and  kissed  him. 

"Robby — shall  I  tell  you  what  I  think?  I 
think  your  wife  will  be  a  very  lucky  girl!  very 
much  to  be  envied." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

JESSICA    BERING    knew    something    had 
happened  to  change  her  niece's  life.     She 
saw  that  the  girl  was  suffering,  but  she  did 
not  dare  to  ask  questions.    It  seemed  to  her  that 
in  some  mysterious  way  the  spirit  of  her  dead 
brother  had  taken  possession  of  Isola. 
She  was  so  quiet. 

She  was  considerate,  even  affectionate,  but  she 
remained  insistently  aloof. 

It  seemed  to  Miss  Dering  that  she  was  never, 
for  a  single  moment,  her  natural  self.  There 
was  a  fevered  look  in  her  eyes.  Once  when  the 
aunt  had,  intentionally,  touched  the  velvet  skin, 
she  had  been  horrified;  it  was  dry  and  burning 

hot. 

***** 

And  Isola! 

She  was  torn  by  warring  emotions;  fiercely 
indignant,  disappointed,  disillusioned,  desper- 
ately lonely. 

She  had  been  insulted.  She  had  been  be- 
trayed, held  up  to  ridicule  by  the  woman  she  had 
worshipped. 

She  felt  soiled. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  never  again  could  she 
242 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  243 

feel  happy,  hopeful,  spring-like,  as  she  had  felt 
that  day  in  the  Bois — with  Robin  Underwood. 

Somehow  she  found  herself  thinking  a  great 
deal  about  Robin  just  then.  He  was  away,  in 
London,  but  in  spirit  he  was  with  her.  The 
thought  of  him  gave  her  something  of  confi- 
dence. She  never  meant  to  tell  him  the  horrible 
truth,  but  she  hugged  to  her  soft  breast  the  cer- 
tain knowledge  that  if  she  did  tell  him  he  would 
avenge  her. 

He  was  a  boy,  but  he  was  no  coward.  He 
would  do  what  her  father  would  surely  have 
done  in  the  same  circumstances. 

She  could  not  tell  him — ever.  She  longed 
passionately  for  a  friend,  for  a  protector.  But 
it  must  not  be  Robin.  For  if  she  told  him  any- 
thing, she  would  have  to  tell  all.  And  it  would 
hurt  him. 

She  had  been  mad,  worse  than  foolish.  She 
had  been  infatuated  with  a  creature  of  her  own 
imagination.  She  had  almost  worshipped  the 
marvellous  being  she  had  imagined  the  poet 
to  be. 

Her  dream  had  been  wonderful. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  all  her  life,  since  that 
night  when  she  had  first  seen  Lucienne  Gerome, 
had  been  a  dream.  She  had  known  nothing, 
wanted  nothing,  of  realities. 

And  the  awakening  ?     Horrible ! 


244  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

***** 

She  had  been  blindly  obstinate.  She  had 
made  her  aunt  suffer.  She  was  making  her 
suffer  now,  but  she  could  not  confide  in  her. 

If  only  Robin  had  been  in  Parts  just  then ! 

She  could  have  told  him  much.  It  would 
have  been  such  a  comfort,  and  perhaps  he  would 
not  have  asked  questions.  He  was  so  wonder- 
fully clever  about  some  things. 

Probably  he  would  not  have  asked  questions. 

And  yet? 

Could  she  have  kept  the  whole  truth  from 
him?  Could  she  have  resisted  the  claims  of  his 
absolute  confidence  in  her? 

He  thought  her  the  sweetest,  purest  thing  in 
the  whole  world. 

He  believed  in  her,  he  trusted  her,  he  adored 
her. 

In  those  lonely  days  his  love  meant  a  great 
deal. 

It  seemed  to  close  in  about  her  and  to  whisper 
soft  words  of  sympathy.  In  some  mysterious 
way  it  was  her  one  real  consolation. 

And  yet  it  was  when  she  thought  of  Robin's 
unquestioning  love  that  she  was  most  conscious 
of  the  plague  spot  on  her  arm — that  burning 
spot  where  clinging  lips  had  rested. 

She  felt  soiled.  She  could  not  bear  that 
Robin  should  know  that — ever, 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  245 

He  had  often  told  her  that  her  throat  was  like 
a  marble  column.  His  ardent  young  eyes  had 
often  devoured  its  soft  whiteness,  but  he  had 
never  touched  it ! 

If  Robin  knew  all  he  would  be  disgusted. 
He  might  say  nothing.  Probably  he  would  try 
to  find  excuses  for  her  weakness,  but  in  his  heart 

he  would  be  disgusted. 

***** 

Shut  up  in  her  bedroom  Isola  tried  to  think 
out  the  possibilities  of  her  future. 

The  stage? 

She  loathed  it. 

The  veil  of  glamour  had  been  torn  aside.  She 
realized,  now,  that  what  she  had  imagined  to  be 
conviction  was  merely  fervent  enthusiasm. 

She  had  worshipped  an  Ideal.  The  reality 
was  hateful. 

In  her  heart  she  had  long  known  that  her 
dreams  were  nothing  but  dreams.  So  many 
things  had  hurt  and  offended  her.  She — as  the 
only  English  girl  in  the  company — had  been  a 
thing  apart.  She  had  been  bitterly  envied  as 
"Madame's  protegee."  She  had  been  sneered  at 
and  secretly  ridiculed,  but  on  the  whole  she  had 
been  left  alone.  So  long  as  "Madame"  smiled 
on  her  no  one  dared  to  be  openly  offensive:  but 
she  had  been  disliked  by  most  of  her  companions 
in  the  theater.  The  women  had  hated  her  be- 


246  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

cause  of  her  strange  beauty.  The  men  had  re- 
sented her  "English  manner."  She  loved  to 
make  friends.  She  had  tried  to  enter  into  life 
behind  the  scenes  with  enthusiasm,  but  she  was 
not  "facile."  And  she  had  been  pushed  into 
prominence  through  favoritism.  They  disliked 
her.  The  jeune  premier,  a  handsome  youth  with 
languid  eyes  and  persuasive  voice,  had  tried, 
secretly,  to  make  love  to  her,  but  he  was 
burdened  by  a  wild  desire  to  please  Gaston 
Lery;  and  Lery  had  made  it  known,  with  brutal 
clearness,  that  "La  petite  Anglaise"  belonged  to 
his  friend  Guy  de  Vesian. 

Many  things  had  been  said,  and  hinted,  that 
were  incomprehensible  to  the  girl,  but  she  felt 
that  she  was  not  liked.  She  knew  instinctively 
that  nearly  every  woman  in  the  company  would 
rejoice  at  her  downfall. 

And  was  she  really  to  accept  failure — with- 
out a  struggle?  That  was  the  question  that 
haunted  her. 

She  hated  the  stage,  hated  the  Theatre 
Gerome,  but  she  was  ashamed  to  fail ! 

"Bering's  daughter."     "Bering's  daughter." 

How  often,  with  pride,  she  had  heard  the 
words.  People  who  had  known  him  had  wel- 
comed her  for  his  sake.  People  who  had  recog- 
nized his  genius  were  prepared  to  find  talent, 
that  at  least,  in  his  daughter. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  «  247 

The  way  had  been  made  wonderfully  easy  for 
her.     She  was  ashamed  to  fail. 


The  afternoon  was  drawing  on. 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  bedroom  door.  An 
old  servant  came  in  carrying  a  letter.  Isola 
opened  it.  She  glanced  quickly  through  its 
contents  and  then  stared  at  the  signature: 
"Gabrielle  Borizoff." 

She  read  the  note  again.  "Will  you  waive 
ceremony  and  come  to  see  me — this  afternoon? 
You  were  not  at  home  when  I  called  the  other 
day,  but  your  father  and  I  were  friends.  I 
should  like  to  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing 
you — intimately. ' ' 

The  servant  said  the  footman  had  told  her 
that  the  automobile  was  waiting,  in  case  "Made- 
moiselle" could  return  in  it. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Isola  sat  very  still. 

Princess  Borizoff? 

She  had  always  longed  to  know  her.  And 
yet  she  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  resentment. 
This  famous  leader  of  society  had  known  her 
father.  She  had  never  until  quite  lately  taken 
any  notice  of  her. 

Why  had  this  invitation  been  sent?  Why  did 
the  Princess  so  suddenly  wish  to  know  her 
"intimately"  ? 


248  WHAT  IS  LOVE  <? 

Her  recent  experiences  had  made  the  girl  ab- 
normally sensitive.  She  was  always  looking  for 
fresh  slights.  For  a  moment  she  thought  of 
declining  the  invitation.  Then — suddenly — she 
made  up  her  mind  to  accept  it. 

When  Isola  Dering  crossed  the  threshold  of 
the  little  salon  at  the  end  of  the  great  suite  of 
reception  rooms  Princess  Borizoff  was  conscious 
of  feeling  surprised. 

The  girl  was  beautiful,  dignified,  self-pos- 
sessed. She  was  perfectly  dressed  and  charm- 
ing in  every  way,  but  she  was  not  what  the  Prin- 
cess had  expected. 

A  little  smile  flickered  across  her  face  as  she 
suddenly  remembered  Robin  Underwood's  boy- 
ish words — "I  want  you  to  give  me  a  leg  up!" 

She  was  a  woman  of  courage,  but  it  occurred 
to  her  that  it  might  not  be  easy  to  interfere, 
even  indirectly,  with  this  girl's  plans. 

Isola  looked  straight  at  her.  At  that  moment 
the  Princess  found  her  thoughts  flying  back  to 
the  day,  so  many  years  ago,  when  the  painter 
had  paid  his  first  visit,  at  her  request,  to  the 
Villa  Borizoff  in  Rome.  After  all  those  years 
she  still  remembered  the  amused  question  that 
had  flashed  from  his  eyes  as  he  greeted  her. 
There  was  no  amusement  in  the  dark  eyes  that 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  249 

! 

were  now  watching  her  so  steadily,  but  the  like- 
ness was  very  great:  almost  startling. 

She  held  the  girl's  hand  for  a  moment. 

"Shall  we  sit  near  the  window?"  she  said. 

"It  is  a  magnificent  afternoon.  It  seems 
almost  a  shame  to  stay  in  the  house." 

Isola  smiled.  With  admirable  grace  she  sank 
back  into  the  depths  of  a  big  armchair.  A  pert 
little  Pekingese  ran  forward  and  sniffed  at  her 
skirts,  daintily.  Then  he  ventured  closer  and 
rubbed  his  little  black  nose  against  her  hand. 
She  looked  down  at  him,  laughing  softly.  A 
second  later  the  cheeky  little  creature  was  on 
her  lap.  The  Princess  poured  out  tea.  As  she 
handed  a  cup  to  her  visitor  her  keen  eyes  took 
in  every  detail  of  the  pretty  summer  dress.  The 
folds  of  soft  white  silk  were  very  becoming  to 
the  slender  figure.  The  wide-brimmed  hat  cast 
a  delicious  shadow  over  the  lovely  face.  The 
girl  was  quite  charming,  but  the  Princess  found 
herself  wondering,  a  little,  at  some  of  the  things 
Robin  had  said  about  her.  The  boy  was  so — 
boyish !  This  girl  was  so  exceedingly  self- 
possessed. 

For  a  moment  or  two  they  discussed  the 
weather,  the  Paris  season,  the  Trouville,  and 
so  on. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Princess  Borizoff 
found  it  difficult  to  make  conversation.  If  it 


250  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

had  been  possible  for  her  to  feel  disconcerted 
she  felt  so  at  that  moment — face  to  face  with 
Miles  Bering's  daughter.  There  was  something 
she  did  not  understand.  This  girl  was  either 
extraordinarily  cold,  almost  uninteresting,  or — 
she  was  holding  herself  in  check,  intentionally. 

Suddenly  the  Princess  was  conscious  that  she 
was  irritated.  She  plunged  into  deep  waters. 

"We  were  all  present  at  the  premiere  of  Mon- 
sieur Lery's  clever  play.  All  Paris  has  been 
talking  of  your  perfect  accent,  of  your  extraordi- 
nary command  over  the  French  language — 
which  is  not  an  easy  one." 

The  girl  smiled  slightly. 

"I  have  only  been  in  England  once  in  my  life. 
I  was  educated  here  in  Paris  in  a  convent.  I 
think  I  speak  French  more  correctly  than 
English." 

"You  speak  both  languages  very  well  indeed ! 
But  how  does  it  come  that  you  know  so  little  of 
England?  Does  your  aunt  never  go  home?" 

"'Home'?  I  never  thought  of  England  as 
'home.'  Of  course,  my  mother  was  English,  but 
then  father  was  exaggeratedly  Irish — so  every 
one  says." 

"Yes.     He  was  quite  Irish." 

"You  knew  him  well?" 

The  girl's  face  grew  suddenly  soft.     There 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  «  251 

was  eagerness  in  her  eyes.  The  Princess 
hesitated. 

"I  knew  him — rather  well.  He  and  my 
friend  Mrs.  Underwood  were  great  friends.  It 
was  she  who  introduced  him  to  me." 

"Mrs.  Underwood?  Robin  Underwood's 
mother?" 

"Yes.  You  knew  the  Underwoods  were 
friends  of  your  father,  didn't  you?" 

Isola's  lips  curled  slightly. 

"I  knew  that  Mrs.  Underwood  saw  a  good 
deal  of  Aunt  Jessica  and  of  father — long  ago, 
in  Rome.  She  has  called  at  the  Rue  de  Douai 
twice." 

Princess  Borizoff  looked  down.  She  knew 
what  the  words  implied.  Face  to  face  with  those 
splendid  dark  eyes  she  felt  guilty.  She  also 
had  been  a  friend  of  the  dead  painter.  How 
many  times  had  she  called  at  the  Rue  de  Douai? 
It  rarely  happened  to  her  to  feel  regret  for  any- 
thing she  had  done  or  left  undone,  but  she 
found  herself  wishing,  very  much,  that  she  had 
taken  the  girl  under  her  protection  from  the 
beginning.  Her  word  was  law  in  the  grand 
monde  of  Paris.  She  could  have  done  much. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"You  have  seen  something  of  Robin  Under- 
wood, I  think?  He  is  one  of  my  great  favorites. 
I  miss  him  dreadfully." 


252  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

"Yes?  He  is  charming.  Aunt  Jessica  is  de- 
voted to  him." 

Again  there  was  a  moment  of  silence.  The 
Princess  was  a  very  proud  woman — proud 
enough  to  be  able  to  turn  the  point  of  a  joke 
inward.  And  this  was  something  of  a  joke,  this 
quiet  turning  of  the  tables!  It  was  the  visitor 
who  seemed  perfectly  at  ease.  It  was  she  who 
was  forced  to  search  for  possible  subjects  of 
conversation.  She  was  irritated.  But  she  felt 
curiously  elated.  This  girl  was  worthy  to  be  the 
painter's  daughter. 

She  took  up  a  box  of  bon-bons. 

"Won't  you  have  some?  They  are  rather 
good,  I  think."  The  girl  leaned  forward  and 
took  a  sugared  chestnut  in  her  dainty  fingers. 
"The  season  is  almost  over.  Where  are  you 
going  for  the  holidays — and  in  the  autumn?" 

"My  aunt  speaks  of  a  fortnight  at  Biarritz. 
Then — it's  not  quite  settled.  Madame  Gerome 
is  going  to  America." 

"She  is  going  to  take  La  Jeune  fille  de 
]Demain  to  the  States?" 

The  Princess  was  smiling.    Isola's  color  rose. 

"I  don't  know.  I  fancy  Monsieur  Jules — 
that  is  to  say,  Monsieur  Rivaud — doesn't  think 
it  very  suitable.  But  Monsieur  Lery  has  written 
a  new  piece." 

"He  is  clever." 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  "?  253 

"Every  one  says  so." 

"But  what  do  you  think — personally?" 

The  Princess  was  insistent.  Isola  looked 
down. 

"I  don't  think  I'm  a  judge.  Madame 
Gerome  says  I  am  still  only  a  'raw  amateur.'  ' 

She  was  smiling,  but  her  listener  recognized 
the  undercurrent  of  bitterness. 

"Poor  Gerome!"  The  Princess  laughed 
slightingly.  "You  are  very  much  infatuated 
with  your  profession  ?  You  mean  to  make  a  big 
success?" 

For  a  second  the  splendid  dark  eyes  were 
turned  full  on  her.  In  that  brief  second  she  saw 
that  the  girl  was  suffering  intensely.  Then  the 
mask  was  replaced. 

"I  mean  to  succeed  if  I  can.  I  don't  think  I'm 
infatuated  with  the  stage,  but  I  mean  to 
succeed." 

"But  what  made  you  think  of  it — at  first?" 

"I  saw  Madame  Gerome.  I  wanted  to  be  like 
her." 

"My  dear  child!" 

Princess  Borizoff  spoke  in  genuine  horror. 
Isola  smiled.  She  knew  she  had  shocked  this 
woman  who  had  been  her  father's  friend.  She 
was  glad. 

There  was  quite  a  long  silence.  The  Princess 
was  thinking  rapidly.  Something  within  was 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  « 

forcing  her  to  hold  out  a  helping  hand  to  this 
strange  girl.  Something  was  telling  her  to  break 
down  this  wall  of  unnatural  reserve — at  all 
costs. 

This  was  Miles  Dering's  daughter — his  only 
daughter.  She  was  a  mere  child.  She  was  still 
young  enough — ignorant  enough — to  say  that 
she  wished  to  be  like  Lucienne  Gerome ! 

She  spoke  impulsively. 

"Each  one  of  us  has  a  cherished  ambition  of 
some  sort.  I  should  like  to  show  you  the  picture 
of  a  nation's  ambition !  I  believe  it  would  in- 
terest you." 

Isola  looked  at  her.  She  rose  quickly.  She 
was  beginning  to  feel  ashamed  of  her  sullen 
temper.  There  was  something  so  superb — so 
queenlike — about  this  lovely  woman.  She  felt 
she  had  behaved  like  a  sulky  child. 

The  Princess  passed  her  hand  through  her 
arm  and  crossed  the  room. 

When  they  reached  the  entrance  of  her 
private  suite  of  apartments  she  stood  aside  and 
motioned  her  visitor  to  pass  in  before  her. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  bedroom  Isola  stood 
still  a  second.  It  was  so  harmonious,  so  regal 
in  its  subdued  splendor,  and  yet  so  restful. 

There  were  hangings  of  palest  pink  and  pearl 
and  white.  The  satin  stuffs  were  clouded  in 
mists  of  Indian  muslins.  White  rugs  lay  against 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  25$ 

the  dark  floor.  The  great  wide  dressing-table 
was  of  carved  ebony  inset  with  silver.  It  was 
covered  with  delicate  lace.  Crystal  and  silver 
gleamed  on  the  toilet  bottles  and  brushes.  Pale 
roses  stood  here  and  there  in  porcelain  vases. 

Close  to  an  open  window  there  was  a  large 
writing-table.  Standing  on  it,  shaded  by  droop- 
ing roses,  was  the  figure  of  a  Japanese  dancing- 
girl  carved  in  white  wood.  Isola's  eyes  dilated 
as  they  fell  on  it.  One  of  her  most  cherished 
possessions  was  just  such  a  little  figure  as  this. 
Impulsively  she  ran  to  the  table.  The  Princess 
smiled.  She  said  nothing.  Very  slowly  she 
crossed  the  room  and  stood  before  a  large  pic- 
ture which  hung  low  on  the  end  wall.  A  second 
later  Isola  had  joined  her. 

It  was  a  panel-shaped  canvas;  immense; 
strangely  impressive.  In  the  midst  of  a  somber, 
midnight  sky  there  was  a  single  star  of  great 
brilliancy.  And  the  single  star  dominated  the 
vast  canvas. 

Lower  down  there  was  a  snow-covered  plain 
— illimitable,  dreary,  desperately  cold.  And 
across  this  cruel  plain  streamed  a  confused  mass 
of  struggling  humanity.  The  countless  figures 
were  barely  outlined.  They  seemed  to  melt  into 
the  background  and  yet  they  gave  a  vivid  impres- 
sion of  dogged  strength  held  in  leash. 

Onward — onward  they  blindly  forced  their 


256  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

way — their  straining  eyes  always  fixed  upon  the 
glittering  star. 

In  the  foreground  there  was  an  old  Russian 
peasant.  His  hands  were  coarse  and  knotted. 
His  eyes  were  sightless.  But  he,  too,  was 
eagerly  straining  towards  the  great  star. 

It  was  an  extraordinary  picture,  terrible  in  its 

concentrated  emotion. 

***** 

Isola  stood  motionless.  She  seemed  as  one  in 
a  trance.  Then,  in  a  moment,  a  flood  of  color 
mounted  to  her  face.  She  ran  forward  and 
raised  her  hands  to  touch  the  canvas. 

"It's  Father's  'Russia'!" 

***** 

The  Princess  softly  laid  her  hand  on  the  girl's 
shoulder. 

"It  is  very  wonderful,"  she  said  quietly. 
"The  picture  of  a  nation's  ambition !  Russia 
is  still  in  the  dark.  It  is  still  night  in  those  vast, 
limitless  tracts  of  land  which  lie  beyond  our 
great  cities.  But  Russia  is  awakening.  The 
people  are  beginning  to  realize,  dimly,  that  the 
Star  of  Liberty — the  flaming  Star  of  Light, 
really  exists — somewhere.  And  they  are  grop- 
ing their  way  along  the  path  which  leads  to  it. 
Your  father  was  a  great  painter.  He  was  also, 
at  heart,  a  great  poet.  But  not  a  poet  of  the  de 
Vesian  type." 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  257 

Isola  turned  and  looked  at  her.  Her  dark 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Her  lips  were  trembling. 
She  looked  lovely;  pathetically  young. 

The  Princess  hesitated  long. 

Then  suddenly  she  took  the  girl's  hand  and 
led  her  towards  the  window. 

"Shall  we  sit  here  for  a  moment?  I  wish  to 
speak  to  you.  I  wish  to  tell  you  something." 

Isola's  eyes  questioned  her  dumbly.  She 
could  not  speak.  It  was  with  difficulty  she 
forced  back  the  rising  sobs.  There  was  a  long 
silence. 

The  Princess  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  let 
her  splendid  eyes  wander  out  over  the  gardens 
underneath. 

The  sun  had  crept  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
horizon.  Its  dying  rays  were  still  resting  in  the 
branches  of  the  great  trees,  which  lent  an  ap- 
pearance of  vastness  to  the  grounds.  A  mid- 
summer evening.  The  air  was  still.  Even  the 

restless  butterflies  had  folded  their  wings. 

***** 

The  Princess  had  taken  the  little  carved  figure 
of  the  Japanese  dancer  from  her  writing-table. 
She  was  holding  it,  softly,  between  her  fingers. 
She  was  thinking  of  that  evening,  in  her  exqui- 
site gardens  at  the  Villa  Borizoff,  in  far-away 
Rome. 

Miles  Bering  had  carved  the  quaint  figure. 


258  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

He  had  told  her  the  story  of  the  dancing-girl 
who  willingly  gave  up  fame  and  wealth  for  the 
sake  of  Love.  He  had  given  her  the  little  carv- 
ing he  had  done  in  memory  of  Hearn's  "Of  a 
dancing-girl!" 

She  smiled. 

Then  she  looked  up  and  met  the  girl's  eager 
gaze. 

"I  loved  your  father,"  she  said  very  quietly. 
"He  was  the  only  man  I  ever  loved.  And  be- 
cause he  has,  unconsciously,  done  a  great  deal 
for  me,  I  wish  to  help  you  if  I  can.  I  think  you 
are  in  trouble.  Will  you  trust  me?  Will  you 
take  me  into  your  confidence?" 

Isola  caught  her  breath.  Her  face  flushed. 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  wonder  and  awe. 

"You  loved  him  ?     My  father  ?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  silence. 

The  girl  did  not  dare  to  speak.  She  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  been  carried  out  into  the 
fathomless  waters  of  the  great  sea  of  life. 

As  the  Princess  watched  her  the  smile  on  her 
lips  deepened. 

"I  loved  him.  He  loved  the  woman  who 
became  your  mother.  I  never  saw  him  after  the 
night  on  which  we  made  that  mutual  confession, 
but  he  has  remained  with  me  in  spirit.  He  has 
done  very  much  for  me.  Through  him  I  have 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  259 

come  to  realize  what  Love  might  mean  in  a 
woman's  life." 

She  was  smiling,  her  manner  was  quite  calm. 
Isola  touched  her  hand  timidly. 

"Father— knew " 

"Yes.     I  told  him." 

***** 

Isola  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  She  pressed 
her  head  hard  against  the  cushions.  She  was 
breathless  with  amazement.  Her  heart  was 
swelling  with  pride.  It  was  the  most  wonderful 
moment  of  her  life. 

The  Princess  watched  her.  At  last  she  spoke 
again. 

"I  have  told  you  this  in  order  that  you  might 
realize  that  I  want  to  be  your  friend.  I  do  not 
know  you  very  well,  but  I  think  you  are  in 
trouble.  Will  you  let  me  help  you  ?" 

For  a  second  the  girl  hesitated.  Then  she 
sprang  forward  and  threw  herself  on  her  knees. 
Wild,  incoherent  words  broke  from  her.  Sobs 
choked  her  at  times,  but  she  went  on  desperately 
— she  told  the  whole  pitiful  story. 

As  the  Princess  listened  her  face  grew  very 
hard.  She  silently  stretched  out  her  hand,  and 

rested  it  on  the  girl's  bowed  head. 

***** 

The  shadows  had  fallen. 

Isola's  sobs  had  died  away.     She  was  still 


260  WHAT  IS  LOVE  « 

kneeling.  She  was  very  tired,  but  she  was  no 
longer  lonely. 

"You  don't  despise  me?" 

Princess  Borizoff  shook  her  head.  She  was 
smiling. 

"No.  I  wish  very  much  you  had  not  had  this 
very  disagreeable  experience;  but  perhaps  it  was 
necessary.  It  may  be  your  baptism  of  fire!" 

Isola  looked  up  eagerly. 

"You  think  I  am  right  to  finish  the  season 
with  Madame  Lucienne?  It's  horrible,  but  I 
should  so  hate  to  seem  a  coward." 

"  'Right'?  That's  a  big  word.  But  I  don't 
think  it  will  do  harm.  The  season  is  nearly 
over.  In  August  you  must  go  with  me  to 
Trouville.  Indeed,  if  your  aunt  will  permit  it, 
I  should  like  you  to  come  and  pay  me  a  visit — 
at  once.  You  can  go  to  the  theater  every  eve- 
ning from  here  as  easily  as  from  the  Rue  de 
Douai." 

"You  wish  me  to  stay  here — with  you — 
now?" 

"Yes.  These  people  must  be  made  to  under- 
stand, without  spoken  words,  that  you  do  not 
belong  to  them.  It  will  do  them  good.  It  will 
do  Monsieur  de  Vesian  much  good." 

"You  mean?    Princess!    You  mean ?" 

"I  mean  to  strike  Monsieur  de  Vesian's  name 
from  my  visiting-list,  naturally."  She  was  smil- 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  261 

ing,  but  no  Empress  ever  looked  more  regal. 
"My  child,  do  you  realize  that  if  things  had 
been  different,  if  your  father  had  loved  me,  you 
might  have  been  my  daughter?  Do  you  think 
I  would  permit  Monsieur  de  Vesian,  or  any 
other  person,  to  insult  a  child  of  mine  with  im- 
punity? I  have  power.  In  such  circumstances 
as  these  I  have  no  mercy." 

Isola  caught  her  breath.  She  pressed  her  lips 
against  the  white  hand  that  had  touched  her 
hair. 

"Let  me  love  you,"  she  said  passionately. 
"Let  me  love  you.  Let  me  try  to  show  you 
what  I  feel — what  you  have  done  for  me,  my 
gratitude " 

She  was  incoherent. 

The  Princess  was  smiling,  but  her  splendid 
eyes  were  dreamy.  She  looked  out  over  the 
darkening  gardens. 

"Love  me  if  you  will,  child.  Love,  when 
real,  is  very  precious.  The  'Lordship  of  Love 
is  good/  Dante  was  right  when  he  wrote  those 
words.  Love  me,  but  do  not  speak  of  grati- 
tude— to  me.  It  is  I  who  have  cause  to  be  grate- 
ful to  your  father.  So  grateful  that  it  gives 
me  intense  pleasure  to  realize  that  I  may  be 
able  to  pay  back  part  of  my  debt  to  his  daughter. 
I  was  a  very  hard,  cold  woman  when  I  met  him, 
Isola.  I  should  have  remained  hard  and  cold 


262  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

all  my  life  if  I  had  not  learned  through  him  that 
it  is 

'Love  that  keeps  all  the  choir  of  life  in  chime, 
Love  that  is  blood  within  the  veins  of  Time.' 

Unconsciously  he  made  me  realize  the  possi- 
bilities that  lie  in  the  path  of  a  woman  who  loves, 
and  who  is  loved,  truly.  I  suffered,  a  little ;  but 
I  am  very  grateful." 

She  was  smiling  still,  but  Isola  realized  that 
she  had  almost  forgotten  her  presence. 

Very  softly  she  rose  and  crossed  the  room  to 
where  the  big  picture  was  hanging.  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes  when  she  raised  her  hand  and 
reverently  touched  the  bold  signature  on  the 
corner  of  the  canvas. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

JULES  RIVAUD  was  pacing  angrily  up  and 
down  the  luxurious  dressing-room  in  the 
dome  of  the  Theatre  Gerome. 

He  and  the  famous  actress  had  been  having  a 
long,  very  unpleasant  interview.  He  was 
angry:  she  was  beside  herself  with  fury  and 
excitement. 

As  he  paced  backwards  and  forwards  she 
crouched  on  her  low  divan  and  watched  him. 
The  look  in  her  burning  eyes  was  like  that  of  a 
tiger  in  sight  of  prey.  He  stopped  suddenly  and 
stared  at  her. 

"It's  all  d d  nonsense,"  he  said  roughly. 

"What  has  come  to  you?    Why  do  you  choose 
this  moment  of  your  life  to  play  the  fool?" 

She  laughed  contemptuously.  With  one  of 
her  old  imperious  gestures  she  sprang  up  and 
folded  the  loose  laces  of  her  delicate  robe  round 
her  splendid  figure.  Then  she  threw  herself  full 
length  on  the  couch.  Rivaud  watched  her. 

"You  don't  believe  me?  You  won't  realize 
the  truth  because  you  don't  want  to  realize  it. 
Bienf  If  I  were  not  personally  concerned  in  the 
matter  I'd  let  you  realize  it  at  your  leisure;  but  I 
am  concerned — vitally.  That  makes  all  the 
difference." 

263 


264  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

"You're  afraid  you  may  lose  a  few  of  your 
cherished  dollars?  You  have  become  a  great 
man  since  I  took  you  up,  cher  Rivaud.  Twenty- 
five  years  ago  you  knew  very  well  what  it 
meant  to  go  supperless  to  bed!  /  have  made 
you — don't  forget  that.  I  don't  expect  grati- 
tude, but  I  think  I've  a  right  to  look  for  ordi- 
nary politeness." 

He  made  no  attempt  to  smother  the  oath 
that  rose  to  his  lips. 

"What  the  devil  has  politeness,  or4  gratitude 
either,  to  do  with  this?  We've  made  each 
other,  if  it  comes  to  that,  and  we  must  stand 
together  at  this  critical  moment  unless  we  want 
to  court  failure.  I've  tried  again  and  again  to 
give  you  a  'polite'  hint,  but  you've  refused  to 
take  it.  Now  I'm  forced  into  a  corner,  and  I'm 
speaking  right  out.  If  you  want  to  make  one 
more  successful  tour  in  the  States  you  must  pull 
yourself  together.  They  think  a  lot  of  you  over 
there,  but  they  won't  accept — everything " 

He  was  a  hard  business  man,  but  he  liked 
the  woman  who  had  done  so  much  for  him.  He 
was  irritated  to  the  point  of  exasperation.  Yet 
he  was  sorry  for  her. 

She  stared  at  him  for  a  full  minute.  Then 
she  sprang  up  and  caught  his  arm. 

"What  do  you  mean?    You  say  these  people 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  265 

— these  Americans — won't  accept  'everything'? 
What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

For  answer  he  placed  his  strong  hands  on  her 
shoulders  and  swung  her  round  to  face  one  of 
the  long  mirrors.  With  relentless  force  he 
pushed  her  towards  it. 

"That!"  he  said  bitterly.    "That !" 

She  stared  into  the  face  of  the  mirror.  Her 
white  face  was  quivering.  There  were  little 
lines — hard,  relentless  lines,  framing  her  chin. 
There  were  criss-cross  lines  lying  against  the 
little  blue  mounds  that  lay  beneath  her  splendid 
eyes.  The  compressed  lips  were  too  red;  the 
white  flesh  on  the  cheeks  drooped  ever  so 
slightly;  it  seemed  too  white.  She  was  still  a 
splendidly  handsome  woman,  but  she  looked  her 
age. 

She  uttered  an  inarticulate  cry  and  dashed  her 
hands  furiously  against  the  mirror.  Rivaud 
drew  her  back.  With  the  force  of  a  wild  ani- 
mal she  struggled.  His  grasp  tightened  round 
her  hands.  Suddenly  she  bent  her  head  and  met 
her  small  white  teeth  in  the  loose  flesh  on  his 
wrist. 

With  an  oath  he  flung  her  aside  violently. 

"That's  enough,"  he  said.  "That's  enough. 
Either  you  come  to  your  senses  or  I  cancel  all 
your  engagements  in  America.  We've  been 
partners  for  twenty-five  years.  Well,  it's  about 


266  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

time  that  partnership  came  to  an  end.  I've  had 
enough  of  it." 

He  was  wiping  away  some  drops  of  blood 
with  his  handkerchief.  He  shook  out  the  white 
square  and  stared  at  the  stains.  He  held  it 
towards  her. 

"Can  you  read  that  lesson — or  are  you  really 
insane?" 

She  was  again  crouching  on  the  divan.  She 
stared  at  the  red  stains.  Her  eyes  became  sud- 
denly filled  with  blinding  tears.  She  was 
sobbing. 

"Poor  Jules — forgive  me — I'm  sorry."  She 
caught  the  injured  hand  and  pressed  her  hot  lips 
against  it.  "I'm  sorry;  but  you  don't  under- 
stand. You  could  never  understand." 

It  was  the  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  that  he 
had  so  often  witnessed.  Something  like  a  smile 
crept  across  his  rugged  face  as  he  stood  over 
her.  The  cleverest  woman  remains — a  woman 
— until  the  very  end ! 

He  patted  her  shoulder. 

"All  right — it  doesn't  matter.  I  have  tough 
skin.  It  will  soon  heal.  But  all  the  same  we 
two  have  got  to  come  to  an  understanding." 

"An  understanding?"  She  repeated  his  words 
drearily.  "An  understanding?  I  wonder  if 
any  man  has  ever  understood  any  woman — 
since  the  world  began?"  She  was  still  sobbing 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  «  267 

fitfully.  Her  white  lids,  already  swollen  from 
want  of  sleep,  looked  thick  and  heavy.  The 
droop  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth  was  piteous. 
The  bones  in  her  cheeks  seemed  pushing  them- 
selves to  the  surface. 

The  man  stared  at  her,  taking  in  each 
wrinkle,  each  change  of  outline,  each  quivering 
nerve.  He  was  weighing  the  chances  in  the 
balance. 

He  had  not  drawn  away  his  hand,  and  again 
she  pressed  her  hot  lips  against  it. 

"Jules — be  good  to  me.  I'm  not  quite  my- 
self— I  do  not  feel  quite  well — perhaps  it's  the 
heat — or  perhaps  it's  because  I  never  seem  to 
sleep — now." 

She  flung  aside  his  hand  and  covered  her  face. 
For  a  moment  there  was  no  sound  in  the  flower- 
decked  room  except  her  pitiful  sobs.  Then  she 
raised  her  head. 

"No  man  could  ever  understand  what  it 
means  to  a  woman — a  beautiful  woman — to 
realize  that  things  cannot  go  on — just  in  the 
same  way — forever.  Of  course,  I'm  still  young 
— much  younger  than  many  of  the  singers  and 
actresses  who  draw  big  crowds — every  night — 
in  every  capital  of  Europe.  I  am  still  young, 
but  I  am  not  in  good  health.  My  nerve  has 
given  way — because  I  don't  sleep.  It's  nothing 


268  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

more  than  that.  I  assure  you,  Jules — nothing 
more  than  that." 

She  was  looking  up  at  him.  Tears  were 
coursing  down  the  quivering  lines  on  her  white 
face.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  noticed 
that  her  beautiful  throat — was  no  longer  beauti- 
ful. Something  like  a  groan  passed  his  lips. 
He  caught  her  hands  and  held  them,  not 
ungently. 

"Lucienne,  my  dear  woman,  this  will  never 
do.  I  don't  profess  to  be  a  sympathetic  man, 
but  I  can  understand  fairly  well  that  the  woman 
who  wrote  that  book  about  the  'dangerous  age' 
knew  what  she  was  about.  There  is,  and  must 
be,  a  dangerous  age  in  every  woman's  life,  and 
the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  face  it  out  I  You  talk 
of  those  others — I  suppose  you  mean  Madame 
Carlino  for  one?  She's  getting  on  for  sixty,  and 
still  she's  drawing  crowds — every  night  of  her 
life.  Why?  Because  she  has  had  the  sense  to 
face  this  'dangerous  age'  business  out,  because 
she  no  longer  plays  her  old  parts.  She  doesn't 
give  the  critics  a  chance  of  making  invidious 
comparisons.  She  has  struck  out  in  a  new  line, 
and  she  has  made  a  big  success  of  it.  If  she 
wanted  to  put  on  'Romeo  and  Juliet'  now,  she 
would  play  the  role  of  the  Nurse.  She  would 
never  take  chances  with  Juliet  1" 

He  spoke  half  seriously,  but  with  meaning. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  269 

Lucienne's  face  suddenly  flushed.  She  got  up 
and  walked  back  to  the  mirror.  For  many 
minutes  she  stood  and  stared  at  her  own  face. 
Then  her  eyes  travelled  down,  and  down. 

She  looked  at  Rivaud. 

"You  suggest  that  /  should  do  what  Carlino 
has  done?" 

There  was  infinite  pride  in  her  tone,  and 
something  of  renewed  confidence.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"My  dear  woman — I  threw  out  a  suggestion. 
Carlino  is  a  wise  woman.  She  managed  to  crush 
the  pleasures  and  excitements  of  a  dozen  lives 
into  her  best  twenty-five  years.  She  didn't 
bother  about  what  people  thought  or  said;  she 
just  went  ahead  and  enjoyed  herself!  She  had 
what  the  English  call  'a  high  old  time!'  And 
then  she  shut  herself  up  for  a  few  months — 
you  remember  that?  She  said  she  was  taking 
a  rest-cure.  It's  my  belief  she  was  arranging 
her  stage  for  a  second  series  of  successes.  She 
was  shaking  hands  with  Father  Time  and  get- 
ting him  to  line  up  on  her  side !  That's  my 
belief.  At  any  rate,  she  came  back  from  that 
famous  'rest-cure'  another  woman :  just  as  care- 
less of  on  dit,  just  as  audacious,  just  as  success- 
ful— but  different!  She  set  herself  to  make  a 
fresh  fortune  out  of  the  'dangerous  age,'  and, 
by  heaven !  she's  doing  it — hand  over  hand." 


270  WHAT  IS  LOVE  <? 

"You  want  me  to  be  like  Carlino?" 

She  stood  and  looked  straight  at  him.  Her 
mood  had  changed  again.  She  had  grown  hard. 
Rivaud  laughed  contemptuously. 

"I  want  you  to  be  yourself — but  with  some 
common-sense  knocked  into  your  head.  I  want 
you  to  realize  that  Nature  is  the  one  thing  we 
can't  afford  to  fall  out  with.  For  Nature 
marches  on  in  all  circumstances.  You  cannot 
make  it  stand  still.  No  one  can.  The  day  must 
come  in  the  life  of  the  most  beautiful  woman 
when  she  is  no  longer  in  her  first  youth,  when 
what  the  dressmakers  call  'la  ligne'  changes, 
when  voice  and  manner,  and  thoughts  and  emo- 
tions— not  to  speak  of  the  face — all  change;  at 
first  almost  imperceptibly;  then  with  a  little 
rush ;  then — with  the  violence  of  a  river  at  flood. 
Carlino  recognized  this  law.  Instead  of  fight- 
ing it  she  turned  it  to  her  advantage.  That's 
what  I  call  common-sense." 

She  took  a  silver-framed  hand-mirror  from  a 
table  She  held  it  up.  A  cynical  smile  curved 
her  red  lips. 

"You  are  in  a  great  hurry  to  make  room  for 
your  new  star,  Rivaud!  Unfortunately  for  the 
success  of  your  plans,  I  have  not  yet  reached 
Marie  Carlino's  'dangerous  age' !  I  haven't 
been  sleeping  well  lately,  but  Dr.  Puyanne  has 
seen  to  that.  I  shall  sleep  to-night!" 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  "?  271 

Rivaud  came  to  her  side. 

"You're  going  to  start  on  sleeping  drugs?  If 
you  do  that  the  end  isn't  far  off." 

"What 'end'?" 

She  spoke  violently.  All  her  life  she  had 
given  full  sway  to  the  emotions  of  each  moment. 
She  had  arrived  at  a  time  when  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  her  to  control  herself,  even 
if  she  had  wished  to  do  so. 

Rivaud  was  angry.  And  when  his  temper 
was  roused  he  was  often  very  brutal. 

"The  end  of  your  public  career." 

He  flung  the  cruel  words  right  in  her  face. 
She  winced. 

"You  think "  She  stopped  short.  Then 

she  deliberately  turned  her  back  on  him  and 
opened  some  letters  that  were  lying  on  a  table. 
He  watched  her.  He  was  in  the  mood  to  be 
aggressive. 

"I  think  if  you  don't  break  with  de  Vesian 
you'll  end  your  days  in  an  asile  des  pauvres. 
You  haven't  laid  by  a  sou.  You're  heavily  in 
debt.  If  you  go  on  as  you're  going  at  present 
you'll  find  yourself  playing  to  empty  houses. 
What  then  ?  Do  you  think  the  lord  of  the  Villa 
Floralia  will  marry  you?" 

He  intended  to  rouse  her.  And  he  succeeded. 
She  literally  sprang  towards  him — her  great 


272  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

eyes  blazing — her  face  ashen  white,  as  it  always 
was  in  moments  of  intense  excitement. 

"You  are  a  brute — a  heartless  devil — a 
vulgar  upstart.  You  have  lived  on  me  and  on 
my  earnings.  I,  and  I  alone,  have  saved  you 
from  prison,  for  you  have  sailed  very  close  to 
the  wind  more  than  once.  I,  and  I  alone,  have 
made  it  possible  for  you  to  eat  well  and  drink 
well  and  to  live  in  the  best  hotels.  I  have  made 
you,  I  tell  you — made  you — moulded  you — 
from  a  lump  of  common  clay.  You  owe  every- 
thing to  me,  and  still  you  dare  to  turn  and  be- 
tray me!  You  are  infatuated  about  that 
miserable  fool  of  a  girl.  You  want  to  make  a 
brilliant  star  of  Isola  Bering.  You  want  me 
to  retire  to  make  room  for  her!  You  want  all 
these  things,  but  you  cannot  have  them,  for  I 
am  still  the  greatest  artist  on  the  stage.  I  am 
still  the  idol  of  Europe  and — yes — of  America 
too.  You  can't  do  without  me,  but  I  can  do 
without  you.  Just  as  easily  as  I  dismissed 
Magda  Cheret,  so  I  can  dismiss  you.  If  I  am 
in  your  debt,  take  the  matter  into  the  courts. 
I  shall  know  how  to  look  after  my  own 
interests." 

She  screamed  out  the  last  words.  For  a  mo- 
ment Rivaud  thought  she  would  strike  him.  He 
raised  his  arm  to  ward  off  the  blow. 

She  laughed  aloud. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  273 

"You  need  not  be  afraid — I  would  not  soil 
my  hands  by  touching  you.  Miserable  coward 
that  you  are !" 

She  looked  really  magnificent.  It  crossed 
Rivaud's  active  mind  that  they  might  rake  in 
many  thousands  of  dollars  with  a  piece  that  al- 
lowed her  to  appear  in  such  a  role  as  this! 

She  looked  old,  fearfully  old  and  worn,  but 
she  was  superb. 

He  drew  a  long  breath. 

"That's  all  right,  my  dear.  Calm  down! 
I'm  sorry  if  I  was  rude,  but  you  got  my  temper 
up.  This  is  a  silly  game  we  two  are  playing — 
let  us  make  an  end  of  it.  There's  a  chance  of 
doing  a  splendid  business  in  the  States — if  all 
goes  well,  but  they  won't  stand  Lery's  Jeune 
fille  over  there.  I'm  not  going  to  give  them  a 
chance  of  booing  it  off  the  boards.  We  have 
the  old  repertoire,  of  course,  but  we  must  have 
one  or  two  fresh  things.  De  Vesian  has  a  little 
thing  on  hand  which  might  make  a  hit  if — you 
find  it  suits  you.  The  idea  is  good,  but  it's  only 
in  embryo.  Has  he  mentioned  it?" 

She  had  been  listening,  at  first  sullenly — 
then  with  concealed  interest.  At  the  final  words 
she  looked  up. 

"I  fancy  he  said  something  about  it,  but  I  did 
not  think  he  was  serious.  He  has  always  had 
an  objection  to  writing  directly  for  the  stage." 


274  WHAT  IS  LOVE  « 

She  spoke  eagerly.  Rivaud  understood  the 
tone.  He  was  well  aware  that  the  poet  had  not 
spoken  to  her  of  his  "embryo"  play. 

He  smiled. 

"Talk  to  him  about  it,"  he  said  quietly. 
"Give  the  matter  your  attention — it's  worth 
while.  You've  been  spending  a  good  deal  more 
than  you  know  lately.  It  is  absolutely  necessary 
either  to  make  the  tour  in  the  States  a  big  suc- 
cess, or  to  drop  it — here  and  now.  I  can't  sec 
my  way  to  making  the  necessary  outlay  unless 
I'm  fairly  sure  of  good  returns." 

She  stared  at  him. 

She  was  feeling  strangely  tired. 

Lately  this  horrible  sensation  of  physical  and 
mental  fatigue  seemed  to  haunt  her.  It  caught 
her  at  the  most  unexpected  moments. 

She  never  stood  on  ceremony  with  her  inti- 
mates. She  did  not  do  so  now.  With  a  careless 
gesture  she  indicated  the  door. 

Rivaud  nodded.  He  was  smiling.  Without 
a  word  he  passed  out. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IF  I  were  you  I  should  take  a  pop-gun  and 
go  in  search  of  imaginary  big  game !  Paris 
is  laughing  at  you.  And  when  Paris  elects  to 
laugh  at,  instead  of  with,  one  of  her  favorites 
she  is  dangerous.  I  advise  you  to  get  that  pop- 
gun." 

The  Comtesse  de  Vesian  was  laughing  mali- 
ciously. She  was  standing  on  the  broad  terrace 
of  the  Villa  Floralia,  talking  to  her  son.  They 
had  been  having  quite  a  long  conversation,  for 
them:  for  once  in  her  irregular  life  the  Comtesse 
had  made  an  effort. 

De  Vesian  looked  at  her.  If  what  she  had 
said — if  the  laughter  of  his  beloved  Paris — had 
disturbed  him  he  made  no  sign.  He  looked  as 
cool  and  fresh  as  did  his  suit  of  white  linen. 

He  smiled. 

"You  are  very  kind,  but  no !  'Big  game'  does 
not  attract  me  at  the  moment.  I  prefer  to  think 
of  the  planches." 

"Trouville?"  She  put  up  her  long-handled 
glasses  and  peered  at  him.  "Gabrielle  Borizoff 
is  going  there,  to  her  Villa.  And  she  is  taking 
that  girl  with  her." 

"Yes?" 

275 


276  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

"You  really  want  to  be  cut  openly,  all  along 
the  planches?'' 

His  smile  deepened.  He  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders slightly. 

"You  think  that  wouldn't  happen?  But  it 
would!  It  will  if  you  give  the  Borizoff  woman 
a  chance.  She  fears  no  one — neither  God  nor 
man,  and  she  has  got  her  back  up.  You  have 
always  sneered  at  on  dlt,  and  you've  been  right, 
but  no  one  can  afford  to  sneer  at  ridicule — when 
it's  backed  by  the  right  people.  Gabrielle 
Borizoff  can  carry  her  world — your  world — 
with  her  absolutely.  Already  every  one  is 
whispering  that  you  are,  after  all,  a  little  too 
'cabotinf  Even  the  newspapers  are  poking  fun 
at  the  poet  who  was  too  fervent  at  the  wrong 
moment — and  with  the  wrong  person!" 

He  still  looked  at  her  steadily,  but  his  blue 
eyes  flickered,  A  close  observer  might  have 
noted  that  his  finely  shaped  mouth  was  pressed 
into  a  hard  line. 

His  vanity  had  been  wounded,  and  his  amour 
propre.  He  had  long  affected  to  despise  public 
opinion — in  truth  he  actually  did  despise  it — 
and  public  opinion  had  suddenly  taken  its 
revenge. 

The  day  before,  at  a  reception  given  by  the 
Russian  Ambassador,  Princess  Borizoff  had  cut 
him  directly.  Several  of  her  intimate  friends 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  277 

had  cut  him.  He  remembered  that  on  leaving 
the  Ambassador's  wife — who  was  a  relation  of 
Princess  Borizoff — had  bowed  very  coldly:  she 
had  not  permitted  him  to  kiss  her  hand. 

And  at  that  exclusive  reception  Isola  Dering 
had  been  the  center  of  attraction.  She  was  stay- 
ing with  Princess  Borizoff.  She  went  every- 
where under  her  chaperonage.  The  girl  was 
still  playing  every  night  in  La  Jeune  fille  de 
Demain,  but  she  came  and  went  in  one  of  the 
gorgeous  Borizoff  carriages.  Every  night  the 
Princess  herself  accompanied  her  to  the  Theatre 
Gerome.  Every  night  she  sat  in  her  box  and 
entertained  a  party  of  friends. 

Tout  Paris  was  talking ! 

Tout  Paris  was  amused,  interested,  intensely 
excited.  At  the  clubs  the  absorbing  subjects  of 
conversation  were  the  beauty  and  charm  of  the 
young  English  girl,  the  extraordinary  situation, 
the  possibilities  of  the  future,  and — Guy  de 
Vesian's  ridiculous  faux  pas.  For  the  Princess 
had  been  very  explicit.  She  had  explained  in 
the  right  quarters  what  had  happened.  She  her- 
self treated  Isola's  craze  for  the  stage  as  the 
passing  fancy  of  a  wilful  girl.  All  her  friends 
— and  the  numberless  persons  who  longed 
vainly  to  be  counted  amongst  her  acquaintances 
— followed  her  lead. 

Isola  was  the  most  admired  and  sought-after 


278  WHAT  IS  LOVE  <? 

girl  in  Paris.    Every  night  the  Theatre  Gerome 
was  packed. 

Jules  Rivaud  was  nervously  jubilant.     It  was 

a  magnificent  advertisement,  but 

***** 

The  Comtesse  de  Vesian  gathered  up  her 
muslin  skirts  and  drew  on  her  long,  white 
gloves. 

"I  am  going  to  see  Vera  de  Boisgelin.  Do 
you  care  to  come?" 

Her  son  shook  his  head.  She  laughed  mali- 
ciously. 

"Perhaps  you're  right.  Vera  has  an  active 
tongue!  I'm  going  to  see  her  because  I  want 
to  know  exactly  how  things  are  going.  For  my- 
self— c'est  egal!  But  it  doesn't  amuse  me  to 
see  you  laughed  at.  I  suppose  I  really  must  be 
getting  old." 

She  laughed  unpleasantly.  A  servant  ad- 
vanced down  the  terrace  bearing  a  card  on  a 
silver  tray.  She  glanced  at  it,  then  she  turned 
to  her  son. 

"I  beg  your  pardon — your  visitor,  not  mine. 
Well — au  revoir." 

There  was  an  evil  smile  on  her  cynical  old 
face  as  she  swept  her  girlish  draperies  across 
the  terrace  and  abruptly  entered  the  house.  She- 
was  eccentric,  but  she  was  a  woman  who  had 
all  her  life  been  the  friend  of  crowned  heads. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  "?  279 

She  despised  the  genre  "cabotin"  with  all  her 
strength. 

De  Vesian  glanced  at  the  card;  his  face  did 
not  change,  but  a  veil  suddenly  descended  over 
it — a  thin  veil  of  disgust. 

He  said  a  few  words  to  the  servant,  and  then 
he  too  crossed  the  terrace.  Scenes  did  not  please 
him  in  any  circumstances,  but  scenes  on  his  beau- 
tiful terrace  were  anathema. 

***** 

In  the  poet's  luxurious  "den"  at  the  far  end 
of  the  Villa  Lucienne  Gerome  was  pacing  up 
and  down. 

She  was  dressed  in  white  from  head  to  foot, 
diaphanous  white  stuffs  that  wound  themselves 
about  her  splendid  figure  and  revealed  its  out- 
line while  seeming  to  conceal  it.  It  was  a 
Raoul  Brossan  "creation" — clever,  unexpected, 
"inedite"! 

The  afternoon  was  very  warm.  She  had 
taken  off  her  big  picture  hat.  Her  natural  in- 
stinct to  search  for  subtle  effect  had  prompted 
her  to  throw  its  long  velvet  strings  over  her  arm. 
She  looked,  as  she  intended  to  look,  as  though 
she  might  have  stepped  from  a  Winterhalter 
canvas. 

When  de  Vesian  entered  the  room  she  was 
standing  still  for  a  moment  under  the  shadow  of 
a  giant  palm.  Brilliant  rays  of  sunshine  were 


280  WHAT  IS  LOVE  <? 

resting  on  her  fair  hair  and  touching  it  into  liv- 
ing gold.  Her  eyes  looked  immense — like 
globes  of  soft  black  velvet. 

It  was  a  "Gerome  pose"  of  the  best  order. 
But  the  poet  found  himself  suddenly  reminded 
of  his  mother. 

She,  too,  affected  muslin  gowns  and  picture 
hats  and  Romney  mantles !  She,  too,  was  wont 
to  look  out  from  under  her  lashes  in  a 
coquettish  way;  but  then — she  did  it  so  openly, 
with  such  blatant  artificiality,  that  it  was  amus- 
ing— even  attractive. 

He  crossed  the  room  and  pressed  his  lips  to 
Lucienne's  extended  hand.  For  a  second  they 
stood  face  to  face,  then  with  a  low  cry  she  flung 
her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him  on  the 
mouth — many  times. 

"I  love  you,"  she  whispered.  "My  God — 
how  I  love  you — how  I  long  to  be  with  you 
always !" 

He  did  not  touch  her,  neither  did  he  shrink 
back;  he  stood  motionless. 

There  was  silence.  Lucienne  looked  up  into 
his  eyes. 

"Guy !  What  is  it  ?  What's  the  matter  with 
you  ?  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  ?" 

Her  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream.  He 
smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"Softly,"  he  said.    "Chere  amie— softly." 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  281 

For  answer  she  framed  his  face  with  her 
hands  and  stared  into  his  eyes. 

"You  love  her — that  little  idiot?  You  love 
her  and  you're  afraid  to  tell  me?  You're  afraid 
to  be  honest  with  me?" 

Very  quietly  he  took  her  hands  from  his  face. 
He  held  them. 

"All  this  excitement  is  very  bad  for  you.  Sit 
down  for  a  moment — quietly.  Then  we  can 
have  some  tea  together." 

He  drew  her  towards  a  chair,  but  she  tore  her 
hands  from  his  grasp. 

"No!  No — no — no!  I'm  determined  to 
know  the  truth !  You're  infatuated  with  this 
girl  who  has  made  you  the  laughing-stock  of 
Paris  ?  You  think  you  can  have  her  for  a  petite 
am'ie,  but  you  can't — ever!  I've  settled  that!" 

She  laughed  wildly.  His  face  grew  white. 
He  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"You  are  speaking  of  Mile.  Bering?" 

"Yes !  Of  the  wonderful  jeune  fille  de 
demain  that  you  and  Lery  have  created  between 
you.  I  knew  what  was  going  on.  I  knew  what 
Lery  wanted — he  wrote  it  pretty  plainly  in  one 
of  his  letters.  The  little  Bering  girl  needed 
'experiences'  to  make  her  perfect,  and  you  were 
chosen  as  the  best  person  to  supply  them!  To 
express  love  she  needed  to  understand  love,  and 
you  were  chosen  as  her  teacher!  Oh — it  was 


282  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

an  excellent  plot.  And  it  might  have  had  a 
big  success  if  only  you  had  had  the  courage  to 
take  me  into  your  confidence.  But  no — you 
elected  to  try  to  deceive  me,  you  elected  to  throw 
dust  in  my  eyes.  You  gave  me  the  Marie 
Antoinette  pearls  for  your  Fete  and  you  made 
violent  love  to  her — down  there  in  that  dark 
corner  of  the  rose-garden !  You  had  the  moon 
and  the  tziganes  to  back  you  up,  but  you  for- 
got that  7  was  present.  When  you  chose  that 
particular  seat  you  forgot  that  behind  it  there 
is  a  thick  hedge  of  laurels — thick  enough  to 
hide  any  one  who  cared  to  listen !" 

She  had  worked  herself  up  to  fury.  Standing 
before  him,  her  eyes  flashing  and  a  brilliant 
color  burning  in  her  cheeks,  she  looked  mag- 
nificent. 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence.    Then  he  said: 

"You  played  the  part  of  spy?  Rather  an  un- 
worthy role.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

His  quiet,  supremely  controlled  manner  had 
always  had  the  power  to  excite  her.  At  times 
she  had  adored  it.  At  times  it  had  driven  her 
to  frenzy.  There  was  something  in  him  that 
she  had  never  been  able  to  touch. 

"  'Spy'?  You  dare  to  call  me  that?  'Spy'? 
.'And  have  I  not  the  right  to  'spy'  on  you? 
Have  I  not  the  right  to  know  what  you  are 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  283 

doing — and  saying?  Do  you  not  belong  to  me 
— absolutely?" 

He  smiled.     Very  gently  he  shook  his  head. 

"Chere  amie — no !     I  belong  to  myself." 

"You  mean " 

"Just  what  I  have  said.  I  belong  to  myself. 
It  is  necessary  to  me  to  hold  the  threads  of  my 
own  life.  What  talent  I  have  cannot  develop 
if  it  is  restrained." 

"Guy!" 

It  was  a  pitiful  cry,  that  single  word.  In  it 
there  was  a  woman's  despair.  De  Vesian  stood 
very  still.  The  scene,  to  him,  was  intensely 
painful.  He  hated  to  hurt  a  woman's  vanity, 
especially  this  woman,  who  had  so  long  been 
devoted  to  him.  He  hated  to  wound  anything 
that  had  once  attracted  him,  but  it  was  neces- 
sary. He  stood  and  looked  at  her.  Something 
in  his  blue  eyes  enraged  her.  She  clenched  her 
hands. 

"You  are  trying  to  blind  me  again.  You  are 
trying  to  avoid  the  subject  of  that  girl,  but  I 
tell  you  I  know.  I  was  behind  the  hedge — I 
heard  all  you  said!  And  the  next  day  I  told 
her  the  whole  truth.  I  told  her  of  the  famous 
plot  that  was  to  make  her  a  great  actress!  I 
told  her  that  you  had  been  engaged  by  Lery  to 
make  love  to  her!  Oh,  I  assure  you,  I  made  her 


284  WHAT  IS  LOVE  9 

understand.    Even  you  would  find  it  hard  to  at- 
tract her  now." 

Her  face  was  twitching.  Her  lips  were  dis- 
torted. Her  dark  eyes  were  blazing  with  fury. 
She  was  overwrought — almost  mad  with  jeal- 
ousy. She  was  determined  to  regain  possession 
of  him — at  all  costs.  For  the  moment  he  might 
resent  what  she  had  done,  but  later  on  he  would 
realize  that  her  action  had  been  prompted  by 
her  love — her  wild,  reckless  love.  Like  so 
many  other  mistaken  women,  she  cherished  the 
idea  that  a  dying — perhaps  dead — passion  may 
be  revived  by  a  violent  appeal  to  gratitude.  Be- 
cause she  had  given  everything,  she  had  the 
right  to  look  for  a  generous  return.  So  she 
argued.  So  women,  through  all  the  ages,  have 
argued — vainly. 

There  was  something  very  definite  about  the 
way  in  which  de  Vesian  led  her  to  the  couch 
under  the  giant  palm.  In  silence  he  pulled  for- 
ward a  low  chair  for  himself.  He  was  furiously 
angry.  But  no  sign  of  his  feelings  betrayed  it- 
self in  his  face.  He  seemed  unnaturally  calm. 
Lucienne  Gerome  leaned  forward  and  rested  her 
face  on  her  hands.  She  had  grown  suddenly 
tired.  For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  Then 
the  poet  spoke. 

"What  you  have  done  is  unworthy.    You  will 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  285 

realize  this  later  on,  but,  after  all,  it  is  not  a 
matter  of  consequence.  Life  is  made  up  of 
phases.  We  pass  on  from  one  to  another.  It 
is  always  best  to  pass  quietly,  with  dignity — if 
possible." 

'"Phases'?"  She  stared  at  him  dully. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"The  meaning  is  so  simple.  Nothing  in  this 
life  stands  still.  We  are  perpetually  moving 
on — or  moving  backwards.  Our  bodies  are  al- 
ways changing,  our  minds  are  always  changing. 
What  seems  beautiful  and  desirable  to  us  to-day 
will  seem  'impossible'  to-morrow !"  He  was 
smiling.  In  his  nature  there  were  depths  of 
cruelty.  Some  crafty  demon  within  him  had 
suddenly  stirred  them.  He  was  angry.  For  the 
moment  he  was  relentless.  "We  amuse  our- 
selves by  talking  of  'forever  and  forever'  I 
We  delight  in  pretending  that  love  is  deathless ! 
Of  course,  in  a  sense  it  is  deathless,  because  it 
is  always  capable  of  breaking  into  fresh  bud 
and  blossom.  But  love  is  a  nomad — that  essen- 
tially. No  one  can  hold  it  in  check.  No  one 
can  confine  it  with  chains.  No  one  can  force  it 
to  remain  in  one  place  'forever  and  forever'  I" 

He  looked  straight  into  her  fevered  eyes.  He 
spoke  very  softly,  as  was  his  wont.  There  was 
something  caressing  in  his  tone. 


286  WHAT  IS  LOVE  « 

But  the  hand  of  death  seemed  to  touch  the 
woman's  heart. 

A  wild  appeal  stole  into  her  eyes.  Her  face 
quivered  horribly.  Tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks. 

"Guy!  My  dearest,  my  beloved,  my  life — 
why  do  you  say  that  to  me?  Are  you  trying 
to  punish  me?  Are  you  trying  to  make  me 
suffer,  for  a  moment,  just  to  punish  me  for  being 
a  foolish  'spy'  ?  Guy !  Are  you  angry  with 
me?  Don't  you  know,  feel,  that  it  was  all  be- 
cause I  adore  you?  because  I  belong  to  you 
body  and  soul  ?  because  I  cannot  endure  the  idea 
that  any  other  human  thing  should  enter  into 
your  life  intimately  for  a  single  hour?  Don't 
you  realize  that  you  are  more  to  me  than  ever 
Maurice  de  Saxe  was  to  Adrienne?  that  I  am 
yours  utterly,  utterly?" 

Suddenly  she  broke  down.  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands.  Lying  back  amongst  the 
big  cushions  she  abandoned  herself  to  violent 
emotion.  Her  whole  body  trembled. 

De  Vesian  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  watched 
her. 

His  thoughts  were  very  bitter.  He  was  a 
proud  man.  He  had  suffered  hideously  when 
Princess  Borizoff  had  looked  straight  into  his 
•eyes  and  given  him  the  cut  direct. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  287 

His  world  had  been  present.    His  world  had 

understood. 

***** 

He  felt  furious.  But  side  by  side  with  fury 
there  marched  another  virile  emotion. 

Isola  Dering!  How  exquisite,  adorable, 
spring-like  she  had  been. 

Side  by  side  with  one  of  the  most  famous 
beauties  of  Europe  she  had  held  her  own. 

She  was  but  a  girl,  but  in  type  she  was  the 
equal  of  Princess  Borizoff. 

She  was  adorable. 

And  he  had  lost  her. 

Lost  her,  first  and  last,  through  the  agency  of 
the  woman  who  was  sobbing  amongst  the  cush- 
ions over  there. 

For  he  persuaded  himself  that  he  would  never 
have  dreamed  of  approaching  the  girl,  as  he  had 
approached  her,  if  he  had  not  been  saturated 
with  theater  traditions — theater  instincts. 

She  had  been  right,  his  mother — many  times 
right. 

The  "cabotin"  influence  is  fatal  to  a  man  of 
genius.  It  clogs  his  finer  intuitions.  It  dulls  his 
imagination.  It  casts  a  veil  of  garish  glitter 

over  Nature. 

***** 

The  woman  on  the  couch  stirred. 


288  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

She  slowly  raised  herself.  She  sat  up  straight 
and  stared  at  him. 

She  looked  dreadful.  Unconsciously  de 
Vesian  uttered  a  low  cry  and  started  to  his  feet. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  suddenly  grown 
old — quite  old. 

Lucienne's  eyes  followed  him  as  she  too  stood 
up.  She  was  fearfully  tired. 

She  raised  her  hands  to  her  hair  and 
smoothed  the  ruffled  waves. 

Then  very  slowly  she  walked  to  his  side. 

He  was  not  looking  at  her.  She  stealthily 
followed  in  the  track  of  his  eyes.  Before  her, 
let  into  a  panel,  there  was  an  immense  mirror. 
He  was  gazing  into  it.  In  the  depths  of  the 
mirror  their  eyes  met. 

There  was  silence. 

Then  the  woman  broke  into  wild  laughter 
that  ended  in  screams. 

"No !  No,  no,  no!  Guy — it's  only  because  I 
am  tired,  desperately  tired — to-morrow  I  shall 
be  all  right  again — to-morrow " 

She  rushed  forward  and  beat  against  the  cold 
glass.  Her  eyes  were  streaming.  The  nerves 
of  her  face  were  twitching  horribly.  There 
were  lines — dear  God!  such  pitiful  lines,  about 
her  mouth. 

"No !  No!  I  am  not  like  that,  I  am  not  like 
that — Guy — Guy " 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  289 

She  felt  stifled.  The  scream  of  agony  seemed 
to  choke  her.  For  a  second  she  stood  and  stared 
in  the  glass  at  her  quivering  face.  And  as  she 
stared  she  saw  the  door  on  the  opposite  side  of 
che  room  open,  and  the  figure  of  the  man  she 
adored  pass  out. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  HOT,  still  night  in  late  July,  the  last 
night  of  the  season  at  the  Theatre 
Gerome.  All  the  other  leading  theaters  of 
Paris  had  closed  their  doors  weeks  before,  but 
certain  circumstances  had  made  La  Jeune  fille  de 
Demain  such  a  phenomenal  success  that  Jules 
Rivaud  had  altered  his  plans.  The  Theatre 
Gerome  remained  open  three  weeks  longer  than 
usual. 

On  this,  the  last  night,  it  was  crowded  to 
excess.  But  the  eager  faces  in  stalls  and  boxes 
were  unfamiliar.  They  represented  the  great 
moving  mass  of  tourists  who  always  throng 
Paris  at  this  time  of  the  year,  many  English, 
many,  many  Americans,  not  a  few  French  peo- 
ple from  the  Provinces. 

There  was  excitement  in  the  air.  The  famous 
play  had  been  discussed  in  the  newspapers ;  torn 
to  pieces  in  clubs;  sneered  at,  or  smiled  at,  ac- 
cording to  individual  temperament,  across  sup- 
per tables.  Every  one  wanted  to  see  Isola 
Dering !  Every  one  twisted  and  turned  in  order 
to  get  a  good  view  of  the  loge  in  which  Princess 
Borizoff  was  wont  to  appear  nightly.  For  she 
had  carried  out  her  plan.  She  had  constituted 
290 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  291 

herself  the  friend  and  protector  of  the  young 
English  girl  who  had  made  such  an  extraordi- 
nary sensation  in  the  role  of  "Madeleine 
Delorme."  Isola  was  staying  with  her  at  the 
Hotel  Borizoff.  Every  evening  they  drove  to- 
gether to  the  Theatre.  Every  night  the  Prin- 
cess took  the  girl  back  in  her  luxurious  car.  It 
was  a  curious  position,  unique  in  the  annals  of 
Paris  theater  life.  No  wonder  it  attracted  gen- 
eral attention ! 

So  far  as  Princess  Borizoff  was  concerned,  she 
had  simply  carried  out  her  own  wishes — tran- 
quilly. She  had  never  at  any  time  consulted 
public  opinion ;  she  did  not  do  so  now.  She  did 
just  what  seemed  good  to  her.  And  the  natural 
result  was  that  all  the  world  bowed  before  her 
unspoken  dictates.  Isola  Bering  was  uni- 
versally admired  and  envied.  Her  stage  experi- 
ence was  looked  on  as  a  clever,  highly  original 
escapade.  People  vied  with  each  other  in  en- 
deavoring to  detect  a  flaw  in  her  French  accent ! 

And  the  girl  herself?    Was  she  happy? 

She  would,  just  then,  have  found  it  hard  to 
answer  the  question. 

She  was  amazed,  delighted  with  her  sur- 
roundings, enchanted  with  the  Princess,  proud, 
beyond  words,  of  her  friendship.  She  felt  that 
she  was  living  in  a  dream.  Sometimes  she 


292  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

longed  for  a  touch  of  reality;  sometimes  she 
dreaded  the  awakening. 

Her  experiences  at  the  Theatre  Gerome  had 
been  terrible.  They  had  remained  terrible. 
For  Lucienne  Gerome  had  entered  upon  a  new 
and  extraordinary  state  of  existence.  She  re- 
mained shut  up  in  her  dressing-room  all  day — 
only  appearing  when  the  curtain  rose.  She 
rarely  spoke.  She  seemed  like  a  woman  turned 
to  stone,  but  her  eyes  blazed  with  cruel  light. 
Isola  often  felt  that  she  could  not  endure  their 
baleful  stare  another  hour.  They  terrified  her. 
But  their  influence  was  magnetic.  The  girl  lived 
in  dread  of  a  call  to  that  isolated  room  in  the 
dome  of  the  theater.  She  knew  she  could  not 
have  dared  to  refuse.  But  to  find  herself  alone 
with  that  silent  woman?  Eagerly,  fervently, 
the  girl  counted  the  hours  until  the  last  night. 
She  never  spoke  of  her  fears  to  Princess 
Borizoff,  but  she  often  felt  that  it  would  be  im- 
possible for  her  to  hold  on — until  the  end.  She 

was  really  frightened. 

***** 

People  were  talking  and  laughing  gaily.  The 
house  looked  very  brilliant,  though  the  dresses 
were  not  so  rich  and  lovely  as  on  the  night  of 
the  premiere.  Innumerable  opera-glasses  were 
levelled  at  the  big  loge  in  which  Princess 
Borizoff  was  sitting.  She  was  dressed  in  glitter- 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  293 

ing  black  materials.  One  of  her  famous  ropes 
of  pearls  hung  low  over  her  bust  and  rested  on 
her  folded  hands.  She  wore  a  cluster  of  roses 
at  her  waist,  but  no  other  ornaments.  She 
seemed  to  be  alone  in  her  box.  But  shortly  after 
the  curtain  rose  some  one  slipped  in  and  took  a 
seat,  in  the  shadows  behind  her. 

She  was  a  very  clever  woman,  but  she  had  not 
found  it  an  easy  task  to  keep  Robin  Underwood 
in  London  during  those  two,  almost  three,  event- 
ful weeks.  She  had  written  to  him  daily.  And 
he  had  written  to  her. 

She  had  been  explicit — yet  guarded. 

He  had  been  fiercely  impatient. 

In  the  end  she  had  had  her  way.  Robin  had 
remained  in  England.  He  had  not  heralded  his 
return.  Isola  had  not  the  least  idea  that  he  was 
in  the  theater.  Or  in  Paris ! 

Princess  Borizoff  had  seen  the  play  so  many 
times  that  she  almost  knew  the  words  by  heart. 
She  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

Lucienne  Gerome  made  her  entry.  A  sigh  of 
suppressed  excitement  ran  through  the  crowded 
house.  The  Princess  leaned  forward.  A  sec- 
ond later  she  took  up  her  glass  and  looked 
through  it.  Her  example  was  followed  by  al- 
most every  one  in  the  theater,  for  the  great 
actress  looked  extraordinary ! 


294  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

She  had  neglected  to  make  up,  or  she  had  in- 
tentionally made  up  white.  She  looked  ghastly. 
Her  lips,  naturally  very  red,  had  been  touched 
with  crimson.  There  were  brown  shadows 
under  her  dark  eyes.  They  looked  immense: 
curiously  menacing.  Even  her  voice  seemed 
changed.  It  vibrated  with  emotion,  but  there 
was  a  sharp  edge  on  the  golden  notes.  One 
seemed  to  be  listening  to  a  fine  instrument  which 
was  hopelessly  out  of  tune.  One  or  two  of 
the  strangers  giggled.  Some  one  called  out 
"hus — s — s — h"  in  hissing  tones.  A  wave  of  ex- 
citement passed  over  the  house.  Every  one 
seemed  waiting  for  something. 

The  play  went  on.  Isola  looked  exquisite, 
but  she  was  so  painfully  nervous  that  at  times 
her  voice  could  not  be  heard  beyond  the  first 
rows  of  stalls.  Robin  Underwood  spoke  some 
words  in  the  ear  of  the  Princess.  She  turned 
and  tried  to  quiet  him.  He  leaned  back  into  the 
shadow.  His  hands  were  tightly  clenched.  His 
face  was  set.  In  obedience  to  the  whispered 
commands  he  was  trying  hard  to  control  him- 
self, but — she  was  suffering  I  He  knew  it.  He 
saw  it.  It  was  horrible — damnable  that  she 
should  be  there  on  a  public  stage,  with  "all  those 
idiots"  staring  at  her. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  295 

Still  the  play  dragged  on.  The  famous  sec- 
ond act  was  half  finished.  Lucienne  Gerome 
was  looking  so  relentless — so  worn — so  terribly 
old — that  every  one  was  ridiculing  the  idea  of 
her  having  a  young  lover!  Every  one's  sym- 
pathies were  with  him  when  he  turned  from  her 
and  made  violent  love  to  her  daughter. 

Mother  and  daughter  were  on  the  stage  alone. 

The  great,  vital  scene  of  the  play  was  un- 
folding itself. 

The  distracted  mother  was  making  her  piti- 
ful— final — appeal.  "He  is  my  life — all  my 
life !  Madeleine !  I  adore  him — I  worship  him 
— I  cannot  live  without  him — I  cannot — / 
cannot " 

Lucienne  Gerome  had  flung  herself  on  her 
knees  before  the  girl.  Tears  were  streaming 
down  her  white  cheeks.  Her  head  was  thrown 
back  in  an  ecstacy  of  wild  appeal. 

She  was  magnificent,  but  she  was  terrible,  for 
she  looked  old  and  despairing. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  in  the  thea- 
ter. Every  one  felt  that  there  was  something 
wrong — something  that  they  could  not  under- 
stand— something  unnatural. 

There  was  silence.  Then  a  jubilant  tourist  in 
the  upper  boxes  began  to  laugh  loudly.  The 
laugh  was  taken  up  by  some  of  those  around 
him.  Then  a  loud  voice  again  sent  the  hissing 


296  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

"hus — s — s — h"  through  the  air.  The  spell 
was  broken.  An  uproar  began.  There  were 
many  who  applauded  vehemently,  but  there  were 
many  who  hissed. 

The  obvious  age  of  the  mother  had  made  the 
scene  ridiculous. 

Huge  prices  had  been  demanded  for  seats. 
People  had  a  right  to  express  their  feelings. 

For  a  full  minute  the  uproar  lasted. 

Lucienne  Gerome  had  risen  to  her  feet  and 
advanced  to  the  front  of  the  stage.  She  was 
staring  out  at  the  excited  house.  There  was 
no  quiver  on  her  face  now.  It  was  extraordi- 
narily still. 

Seeing  her  stand  like  that — in  absolute  silence 
— the  house  became  more  and  more  excited. 
The  applause  was  vehement,  the  laughter  up- 
roarious. And  in  between  there  came  the 
ominous  sound  of  hissing. 

She  let  her  arms  fall  at  her  sides.  For  a  sec- 
ond longer  she  stood  perfectly  still  and  gazed 
out  into  space. 

Then  she  suddenly  turned  and  looked  up  at 
one  of  the  boxes. 

De  Vesian  was  there.  As  their  eyes  met  he 
leaned  well  forward  and  patted  his  hands  to- 
gether. He  was  smiling. 

Lucienne  looked  round.  The  stage  was 
epmty,  for  the  young  girl  had  fled. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  *  297 

She,  too,  smiled,  faintly. 

With  one  of  her  famous  gestures  she  raised 
her  hand.  She  was  holding  the  little  phial  con- 
taining the  poison  with  which  "Madeleine's" 
mother  was  to  end  her  life. 

She  put  it  to  her  lips. 

Then  she  flung  it  aside  and  slowly  walked  to 
a  couch  in  the  middle  of  the  stage.  She  threw 
herself  on  it  and  covered  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Suddenly  the  curtain  fell. 

***** 

The  house  was  silent. 

Many  of  those  present  had  seen  the  play  be- 
fore. They  knew  that  this  was  something  new. 

What  did  it  mean? 

Behind  the  curtain  there  was  a  trampling  of 
feet. 

Voices,  frightened — full  of  horror — could  be 
heard.  Some  one  screamed.  A  girl's  piteous 
voice  cried  out,  "Oh,  Monsieur  Jules,  what  is  the 
matter  with  her — what  is  it ?" 

At  the  sound  of  that  voice  Robin  Underwood 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  rushed  from  the  box. 
Princess  Borizoff  hurried  after  him. 

A  moment  later,  in  some  mysterious  way,  the 
truth  became  known. 

Lucienne  Gerome  had  taken  poison. 

She  was  dying. 


'THE  LORDSHIP  OF  LOVE" 

"Once  on  a  time  I  thought 

Love  was  a  thing  for  play: 
Since  I  loved  you  I  know 

'Tis  a  thing  for  the  judgment  day!" 

THE  little  station  at  Stutly — a  picturesque 
village  in  the  heart  of  north  Devon — 
was  still  garlanded  with  trails  of  ivy  and  wreaths 
of  wild  flowers. 

Across  the  iron  gates  of  Stutly  Priory  a  long 
strip  of  white,  bearing,  in  red  letters,  the  word 
"WELCOME,"  still  waved  proudly. 

In  the  big,  ivy-covered  house  itself  there  was 
a  pleasant  hum  of  excitement.  Smart-looking 
maids  in  immaculate  caps  and  aprons  wore  white 
roses  pinned  on  the  bodices  of  their  neat  black 
dresses.  The  majestic-looking  coachman  who 
had  driven  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robby"  from  the 
station  was  taking  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  house- 
keeper's room,  and  he,  too,  had  an  immense 
nosegay  of  roses  in  his  buttonhole.  Every  one 
had  something  to  say  about  the  bride.  The  con- 
sensus of  opinion  might  be  summed  up  in  the 
words  of  the  first  footman,  a  tall  youth  in 
bottle-green  livery — "She's  a  stunner!" 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  299 

It  was  a  glorious  evening  in  September.  On 
the  distant  mountains  there  was  a  carpet  of 
golden  bracken.  The  leaves  on  the  great  trees 
in  the  park  were  turning  red  and  brown — 
slowly. 

In  the  gardens  there  was  still  a  blaze  of  roses. 
Under  "Mr.  Robby's"  instructions  the  per- 
fumed blossoms  had  been  protected  and  cared 
for,  with  minute  attention,  in  order  that  they 
might  make  a  brave  show  at  the  home-coming. 

On  the  broad  terrace  that  overlooked  the  sea 
there  were  two  persons — a  boy  and  a  girl. 

The  girl  was  leaning  over  the  low  balustrade. 
She  was  dressed  in  white.  A  shady  hat  covered 
with  soft  white  feathers  lay  on  a  chair  close  by. 
At  her  breast  there  was  a  cluster  of  moss-roses. 
She  was  exquisite ;  but  in  the  depths  of  her  dark, 
dreamy  eyes  there  was  a  shadow  of  pain.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  it  would  be  long  before  the 
memory  of  that  last  terrible  night  at  the  Theatre 
Gerome  faded.' 

Robin  was  standing  close  to  her.  His  blue 
eyes  were  blazing  with  triumph.  There  was  on 
his  face  a  look  of  tender  reverence  that 
amounted  to  open  adoration. 

He  looked  splendid  in  his  gray  suit  and  dandy 
white  waistcoat.  In  his  buttonhole  there  was  a 
sprig  of  orange-blossom!  Isola  had  protested 
against  this,  but  the  protest  had  been  unheeded. 


300  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

He  looked  splendid  and  radiantly  triumph- 
ant— a  bridegroom  who  was  unfeignedly  proud 
of  his  position  and  who  wished  all  the  world  to 
recognize  it. 

And  yet  he  was  not  quite  a  new-made  bride- 
groom, for  the  wedding  had  taken  place  in  Paris 
ten  days  before,  and  the  early  days  of  the  honey- 
moon had  been  passed  at  Princess  Borizoff's 
villa  at  Trouville;  but  this  was  the  real  home- 
coming ! 

Robin  had  declared  loudly  that  it  was  neces- 
sary for  him  to  wear  a  sprig  of  orange-blossom, 
of  generous  size,  when  he  stepped  from  the  train 
at  Stutly  station ;  and,  of  course,  he  had  had  his 
way — as  usual. 

Isola  looked  up  in  his  glowing  face.  She 
smiled  shyly.  He  leaned  over  her  and  gently 
took  possession  of  her  little  white  hands.  Very 
softly  he  kissed  them — on  the  back  and  on  the 
palm. 

"You  think  you'll  like  it?" 

He  glanced  quickly  over  the  gardens  and 
park,  then  his  eyes  wandered  out  to  the  nearest 
mountain. 

"It  all  belongs,  to  us — as  far  as  you  can  see 
on  that  side,  and  some  this  way,  too." 

She  nodded. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  <?  301 

"It's  lovely.  I  never  thought  England  could 
be  like  this.  I  only  wish " 

She  stopped  short.     Robin  bent  lower. 

"Darling!     Darling — what  do  you  wish?" 

"I  wish  I  could  be  quite  sure  your  mother 
liked  it.  That  is  to  say,  that  she  liked  me." 

Robin  laughed. 

"That?  My  sweetheart,  you  may  set  your 
mind  at  rest  on  that  score.  The  mater  is  the 
second  dearest  and  sweetest  person  in  the  world. 
She's  a  little  eaten  up  with  the  notion  that  /  am 
as  precious  as  an  auk's  egg,  but  you  two  will  get 
on  like  a  house  on  fire.  It  would  have  been  all 
right  in  any  case,  but  since  auntie  has  taken  you 
under  her  wing  the  mater  has  come  to  see  that 
that  beastly  theater  life  in  Paris  isn't  so  bad  if 
it's  taken  the  right  way.  Of  course,  at  first  she 
loathed  the  idea ;  but  then  I  loathed  it,  too,  and 
you  haven't  many  doubts  about  me — have 
you?" 

"Not  many!"  She  was  laughing  softly,  but 
the  look  of  anxiety  had  not  left  her  eyes.  The 
fact  that  Princess  Borizoff  had  adopted  her,  in 
conjunction  with  "Aunt  Jessica,"  had  made  a 
good  deal  of  difference — that  was  certain.  But 
she  was  more  than  a  little  afraid  of  Robin's 
mother.  He  leaned  over  the  balustrade,  close 
by  her  side.  One  of  his  brown  hands  held  hers 
in  prison.  She  could  feel  his  heart  beating 


302  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

through  the  breast-pocket  of  the  festive  coat. 
She  was  tremendously  happy,  but  the  shadow  of 
the  past  refused  to  leave  her.  Over  and  over 
again,  since  her  marriage,  she  had  been  temped 
to  tell  him  everything  about  that  dreadful  night 
at  the  Villa  Floralia  :  she  had  wanted  to  tell  him, 
and  yet  she  had  hesitated. 

For  a  long  time  they  were  silent.  The  rest- 
less waters  in  the  broad  channel  underneath 
made  a  mysterious  sighing  sound.  The  air  was 
very  still.  A  great  calm  lay  on  the  fertile  val- 
leys and  lonely  mountain  tops. 

Isola  drew  closer.  She  was  taking  her 
courage  in  both  hands.  He  trusted  her  so 
utterly. 

"Robby."  She  looked  up  at  him  wistfully. 
The  grasp  of  the  brown  fingers  grew  more  in- 
sistent. "Robby — I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing. You  won't  like  it,  but  I  think  I 

must "  She  felt  his  heart  give  a  sudden 

bound.  Her  face  flushed  painfully.  She  hur- 
ried on:  "That  night,  at  the  fete — he  kissed 
my  arm — more  than  once " 

There  was  silence.  She  hardly  dared  to 
breathe.  Robin's  face  grew  very  white.  He 
looked  down  at  her.  In  his  eyes  there  was 
violence. 

"I  know ;  Auntie  told  me.  Of  course,  I  would 
have  seen  to  it,  but  she  insisted  that  I  must  keep 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ?  303 

quiet.  She  said  it  would  be  harder  for  him  to 
find  himself  kicked  out  of  society  than  to  take 
chances  in  front  of  a  pistol." 

He  spoke  abruptly.  His  voice  was  harsh  be- 
cause of  inward  emotion.  Isola  laid  her  head 
against  his  arm. 

"You  don't  mind — very  much?" 

"Of  course  I  mind.  It  hurts  like  sin.  I'd 
give  five  years  of  my  life  for  a  chance  of  punch- 
ing the  brute's  head,  but  Auntie  made  me  prom- 
ise. She  said  she  knew  how  to  deal  with  him — 
and  I  expect  she  does,  only  it  ought  to  have  been 
my  affair,  for  you're  my  wife." 

She  rubbed  her  head  against  his  arm. 

"You  aren't  angry  with  me?  It  won't  make 
any  difference?" 

"Difference!"  They  were  quite  alone.  Not 
a  single  servant  in  the  whole  establishment 
would  have  ventured  to  play  the  spy.  The 
gardeners  and  "helps"  were  preparing  for  the 
great  feast  that  was  to  come  off,  that  evening, 
in  the  servant's  hall.  Twilight  shadows  were 
falling.  They  were  alone.  Robin  folded  his 
wife  to  his  breast.  His  strong  young  arms  held 
her  hungrily,  as  though  they  could  never  have 
enough  of  that  soft,  yielding  flesh.  He  bent  his 
head  and  kissed  her  softly  on  her  eyes — her 
flushed  cheeks — her  exquisite  mouth. 

"  'Difference'?     Between  you  and  me?    Are 


304  WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 

you  mad  or  are  you  trying  to  tease  me?  What 
could  make  any  'difference'  between  us  two — 
ever?  Don't  we  love  each  other?  Aren't  we 
going  to  live  for  each  other?  Aren't  we  friends 
and  lovers  and — husband  and  wife  ?  Aren't  we 
everything  that  could  make  two  people  one?" 

The  glory  of  love  shining  in  his  eyes  almost 
frightened  her.  It  was  so  steady,  so  over- 
whelmingly sure  of  itself.  His  face  was  pressed 
against  hers.  She  turned  her  head  softly  and 
kissed  him. 

"Robby — I  love  you !"  she  whispered.  His 
strong  young  body  quivered  as  he  strained  her 
to  his  heart. 

"I  know  you  do.  I  always  knew  you  did — 
only  you  didn't  know  it.  Wasn't  I  right  ?  Isn't 
Love  the  Soul  of  Life — the  Soul  of  our  lives?" 

From  her  lips  there  came  no  answer,  but  her 
heart  spoke  in  throbs  to  its  restless  mate. 

The  silence  that  followed  was  broken  only  by 
the  whisper  of  falling  rose-petals  and  the  cease- 
less murmur  of  the  sea. 


THE   END 


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OCT051992 


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